TURNS 
ABOUT 
TOWN 


ROBERT 
CORTES 
HOLLIDAY 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

ROBERT  CORTES  HOLLIDAY 


By  ROBERT  CORTES  HOLLIDAY 

TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 
MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 
BROOME  STREET  STRAWS 
WALKING-STICK  PAPERS 
PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 
BOOTH  TARKINGTON 

THE  MEMOIR  TO: 

JOYCE  KILMER:  POEMS 
ESSAYS  AND  LETTERS 


TURNS  ABOUT 
TOWN 


BY 

ROBERT  CORTES  HOLLJDAY-    *' 


NEW  ^4SJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY" 


Copyright, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CORRESPONDENCE    CONCERNING 
THE 

DEDICATION 

OF    THIS    BOOK 
TO 

JOHN  BUNKER,  ESQRE 

The  Players, 

16  Gramercy  Park, 

New  York  City, 

-P.         T  June  10,  1921. 

DEAB  JOHN  : 

/  am,  with  your  permission,  dedicating  to 
you  a  new  book  of  mine — that  is,  on  condition  that  you 
help  me  read  the  proofs.  The  book  is  to  be  called 
"Turns  About  Town."  It  will  be  published  sometime 

this  autumn. 

Ever  yours, 

To:  John  Bunker,  Esqre  B°B< 


New  York, 

521  West  148th  Street, 

_>  June  12, 1921. 

DEAR  BOB: 

You  can't  intimidate  me  by  any  such 
threat..  On  the  contrary,  I  think  I  shall  be  secretly 
(and  tremendously)  pleased.  As  for  the  proofs,  all  I 
have  to  say  is  (in  the  words  of  the  stage  'villain) , 

"Produce  your  proofs!" 

Always,  dear  Bob, 

Sincerely  yourst 
To:  Robert  Cortes  Hottiday,  Esqr<          J°HN< 

[V] 

673459 


FOREWORD 

More  than  half  of  these  pieces  were  syndicated 
in  a  number  of  American  newspapers  by  The 
Central  Press  Association  of  New  York.  Sev 
eral  others  of  them  originally  appeared  in  The 
Bookman.  "Literary  Lives"  has  been  amplified 
since  it  was  written  for  the  New  York  Times 
as  a  review  of  the  "Dictionary  of  National  Biog 
raphy,"  Second  Supplement,  Volumes  II  and 
III.  "Only  She  Was  There"  and  "Former 
Tenant  of  His  Room"  are  reprinted  from  the 
New  York  Evening  Post.  "The  Sexless  Camera" 
was  contributed  to  a  magazine  called  The  In 
ternational.  "I  Know  an  Editor"  was  written  at 
the  invitation  of  a  gentleman  whose  name  I  can 
not  recall,  and  whether  or  not  he  ever  used  it 
in  whatever  publication  it  was  with  which  he  was 
connected  I  do  not  know. 

I  thank  all  these  friends  of  mine  for  permitting 
me  to  here  reprint  these  articles. 

R.  C.  H. 

New  York,  1921. 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

PTER  PACK 

FOREWORD vii 

I     THE  HOTEL  GUEST 13 

II     A   HUMORIST    MISFITS   AT   A   MURDER 

TRIAL 23 

III     QUEER    THING,    'BouT   UNDERTAKERS' 

SHOPS 36 

IV     THE    HAIRCUT    THAT    WENT    TO    MY 

HEAD 46 

V     SEEING  MR.  CHESTERTON    ....        55 

VI     WHEN    is    A    GREAT    CITY    A    SMALL 

VILLAGE? 72 

VII     THE  UNUSUALNESS  or  PARISIAN  PHILA 
DELPHIA    81 

VIII     OUR  LAST  SOCIAL  ENGAGEMENT  AS  A 

FINE   ART 90 

IX     WRITING   IN   ROOMS 99 

X     TAKING  THE  AIR  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO     .       115 
XI     BIDDING   MR.   CHESTERTON   GOOD-BYE      124 

XII     No    SYSTEM  AT   ALL   TO   THE   HUMAN 

SYSTEM 141 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII     SEEING    THE    "SITUATIONS    WANTED" 

SCENE       ........      1'51 


XIV  LITERARY  LIVES        ...... 

XV  So  VERY  THEATRICAL    .      .      .      .      .  173 

XVI  OUR  STEEPLEJACK  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS  182 

XVII  FORMER  TENANT  or  His  ROOM     .      .  196 

XVIII  ONLY  SHE  WAS  THERE       ....  205 

XIX  A  HUMORIST'S  NOTE-BOOK       .      .      .  216 

XX  INCLUDING      STUDIES      OF      TRAFFIC 

"Cops"      ........  228 

XXI  THREE  WORDS  ABOUT  LITERATURE     .  236 

XXII  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LANDLADIES     .      .  242 

XXIII  AN  IDIOSYNCRASY    .      .      .      .      .      .  256 

XXIV  THE  SEXLESS  CAMERA  .      .      ,.      •      .  271 

XXV  I  KNOW  AN  EDITOR       .      .      .      ,.      .  276 

XXVI  A  DIP  INTO  THE  UNDERWORLD        .      .  281 

XXVII  NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON        .       .  290 

XXVIII  FAME  :  A  STORY  OF  AMERICAN  LITERA 

TURE    ,  328 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  HOTEL  GUEST 

SOME  people  just  go  to  a  hotel  (sometimes 
referred  to  as  "an  hotel")  and  stay  awhile 
and  go  away  again.  And  think  nothing  about 
the  matter. 

Of  course,  some  may  complain  more  or  less  at 
the  place  about  the  "service."  Or  swank  round 
outside  about  the  address,  saying  carelessly: 
"Oh!  yes:  at  the  Blackstone,  you  know."  Or 
again,  if  it's  a  rather  inexpensive  place,  remark 
to  friends:  "Isn't  it  a  funny  hole!  But  the  cuisine 
is  excellent.  You'd  be  surprised!  That's  why 
I  stop  there.  And  then  it's  much  more  homey, 
too,  than  those  garish  places." 

Now  I  myself  am  a  fan  for  hotels. 

If  I  was  a  rich  man  I'd  do  like  an  aristocratic 
and  restless  young  man  I  know,  who  used  to  go 

[13] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

to  one  New  York  hotel  about  twelve  at  night 
(after  the  evening's  entertainment)  and  leave  a 
call  for  ten  in  the  morning,  when  he  would  get 
up  and  drive  to  another  hotel,  check  in,  eat  lunch 
and  dinner  there,  and  move  on  to  a  third  New 
York  hotel  that  night.  A  cheerful  way  he  had 
of  adding  variety.  1k)  his  life. 

He  was.  a:  highly 'agreeable  youth,  this  chap. 
Always  <{\vofe'va  silver-headed  cane.  I'm  sorry 
to  have  to  say  that  he  is  now  in  jail.  Yep !  You 
see,  he  had  many  attractive  qualities,  but  depend 
ability  was  not  a  feature  of  his  equipment. 
However,  his  is  a  resilient  nature,  and,  fortu 
nately,  he  is  an  epicure  by  temperament.  I  was 
rather  distressed,  myself,  when  I  heard  that  he 
was  in  jail;  and  other  of  his  friends  that  I  met 
also  were  decidedly  disturbed  about  him.  One 
day  one  of  them  got  a  letter  from  him  (it  was  in 
France,  you  know,  that  he  was  then  in  jail),  a 
bubbling,  delightful  letter  (just  like  the  youth), 
in  which  he  declared  with  much  gusto  that  the 
jail  he  was  in  had  the  best  menu  of  any  jail  in 
France. 

But  about  hotels.    Oh,  yes! 

I  always  like  those  huge,  brown-paper  laundry 
bags  they  have  hanging  up,  pressed  beautifully 
[14] 


THE  HOTEL  GUEST 

flat,  in  the  rooms,  closets  or  bathrooms  of  hotels. 
You  can't  roll  up  your  laundry  all  in  one  wad 
and  thrust  it  into  one  of  these  bags,  because  this 
would  tear  the  bag.  The  way  to  do  is  to  put  in, 
for  instance,  first  your  collars,  then,  say,  your 
sox,  follow  perhaps  with  your  shirts,  and  so  on. 
In  hotels  of  the  very  first  water,  you  have 
observed,  a  neat  little  pocket  is  attached  to  the 
outside  of  the  bag,  into  which  you  have  the  fun 
of  pinning  your  laundry  slip,  all  elaborately 
made  out. 

Next  thing,  of  course,  is  to  get  your  laundry 
started  on  its  way.  And  here  come  up  a  view  of 
the  nice  nuances  of  hotels.  You  gotta  watch 
your  Ps  and  Qs  in  these  matters  or  you're  likely 
to  get  a  black-eye  at  your  hotel.  All  right  in  a 
modest  sort  of  place  just  to  holler  down  the  tele 
phone  for  a  boy.  Then  you  say  to  boy,  waving 
hand  toward  objects:  "Laundry  to  go  down,  suit 
to  be  pressed,  hat  to  be  ironed,  shoes  to  be  pol 
ished,  letters  to  be  mailed,"  and  so  forth.  Boy 
gathers  up  miscellaneous  collection  of  articles 
and  proceeds  upon  these  divers  assignments. 
Presto!  Nothing  further  to  detain  you. 

But  suppose  you  have  gone  in  for  a  little  more 
class  in  the  matter  of  your  hotel — Statler,  or 

[15] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

something  like  that.  Then  you  find  much  more 
of  a  ritual  to  life.  To  accomplish  your  existence 
requires  thought,  a  clear  head — and  time.  You 
pay  the  penalty  of  the  dignity  of  pomp  and  cir 
cumstance.  No  large,  off-hand,  free  and  easy 
manner  about  sending  up  a  boy.  The  "operator" 
knows  nothing  of  boys.  In  the  matter  of  your 
laundry  you  may  request  her  to  connect  you  with 
the  "bell  captain,"  through  whose  agency  (but 
not  otherwise)  a  boy  may  be  procured.  One 
message.  In  the  matter  of  your  suit  you  may 
request  to  be  connected  with  the  "valet  service." 
Message  two.  And  so  on. 

Then  you  sit  you  down  and  await  the  proces 
sion.  Or,  if  you  prefer,  contemplate  the  spec 
tacle  of  life  by  looking  out  at  the  window. 

You  fee  Buttons.     Lapse  of  time. 

Boots  (as  Dickens  calls  him)  arrives — what 
probably  here  is  a  porter — for  shoes.  Then  you 
have  an  excellent  opportunity  (which  may  not 
occur  again  during  the  day)  for  a  slight  period  of 
philosophical  meditation,  or  to  whistle  a  tune, 
before  the  valet  appears. 

In  such  places  as  I  am  describing  it  is  not 
etiquette  at  all  (though  it  may  seem  to  you  the 
simplest  way  of  doing  the  thing)  to  call  a  bell- 
[16] 


THE  HOTEL  GUEST 

boy  to  get  down  your  bag.  The  porter  does  that 
— and  through  the  correct  channel,  that  is  by  way 
of  the  freight  elevator.  And,  say,  something 
goes  wrong  with  your  ice-water  pipe.  You  are 
not  to  outrage  hotel  decency  here.  What  is 
necessary  for  you  to  procure  is  a  waiter.  Wait 
ers  attend  to  your  inner  wants. 

I  like  best  the  character  of  valet  when  he  is 
English  (either  so  by  birth,  or  this  by  self-culti 
vation)  ;  wears  a  skirt  coat,  immaculately 
pressed,  and  a  "buttonhole";  advances  into  the 
room  in  the  attitude  of  a  bow,  and  comes  to  a 
pause  in  the  pose  of  one  listening  with  deep  and 
profoundly  respectful  attention  to  the  haughty 
utterance  of  a  stage  earl.  Though,  indeed,  there 
is  an  element  of  disquiet  in  your  being  thus  ele 
vated  to  the  Peerage  if,  as  with  me,  the  suit  you 
turn  over  to  this  unexceptionable  servitor  is  of 
Hirt,  Snuffler  and  Muss  manufacture,  and  grow 
ing  a  trifle  frail  in  the  seat. 

The  same  thing  is  true  of  bath-rooms.  I  don't, 
of  course,  mean  that  bath-rooms  perform  the 
valet  act.  But  that  the  more  aristocratic  in 
hotels  you  get  the  more  likely  you  are,  so  to  say, 
to  get  into  hot  water  in  bath-rooms.  Like  this : 

If  you  get  into  a  bathtub  which  is  not  quite  the 

[17] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

last  word  in  bathtubs,  that  is  a  bathtub  which  has 
legs  and  spigots  to  turn  on  the  water,  you  know 
where  you  are  at  all  the  while.  You  turn  on  the 
hot  water  in  the  amount  desired.  It  comes  out 
of  the  hot  water  spout.  As  desired  you  turn  on 
the  cold  water.  Out  of  the  cold  water  spout 
comes  it. 

But,  as  you  know,  the  last  word  in  bathtubs 
is  not  simple  and  democratic  like  that.  It  is  built 
onto  the  floor  and  has  a  clock-like  dial  on  the 
wall.  Dial  marked  at  different  points:  "Cold," 
"Medium,"  "Hot,"  "Off."  Turn  little  handle  to 
regulate  temperature  and  flow  of  water.  All 
out  of  same  pipe.  Yes — but — dial  untruthful — 
very.  "Off"  scalds  you;  "Medium"  freezes  you. 
Bad  time  trying  to  take  last  word  in  baths. 

"Tub  or  shower?"  Maybe  you  say  "shower." 
And  draw  one  of  those  police-court  cells.  Except 
the  door,  no  opening  in  the  little,  square,  com 
pletely  cement  room  but  the  small  hole  in  the 
center  of  the  floor  through  which  the  water  runs 
away.  But  that's  not  the  way  to  look  at  it. 
These  little  catacomb-like  chambers  are  aesthetic 
in  their  ascetic  character.  You  may  entertain 
yourself  by  fancying  that  you  are  St.  Jerome, 
or  somebody  like  that.  In  here  nothing  that  it 
[18] 


THE  HOTEL  GUEST 

will  hurt  can  get  wet,  and  you  can  have  a  fine 
time  making  the  whole  room  a  merry-go-round  of 
splashes.  One  disturbing  thought  may  occur  to 
you.  If  the  door  should  stick  you  might  not  be 
found  until  the  hotel  got  worried  about  your  bill, 
when  perhaps  it  would  be  too  late. 

Still,  I  think  the  chummiest  bath-rooms  are 
those  with  a  bay-window;  very  reprehensible 
those  which  have  no  hooks  on  which  to  hang  your 
pajamas  and  razor  strop. 

Then  there  are  those  hotels  so  far-seeing  into 
the  possibilities  of  evil  chance  and  so  solicitous 
of  your  equanimity  that  they  provide  your  pin 
cushion  with  one  suspender  button.  I  suppose 
the  thought  is  to  impress  you  with  the  idea  that 
nothing  for  your  comfort,  even  down  to  the 
smallest  detail,  is  forgotten.  Still,  though  I  do 
not  know  that  such  an  untoward  incident  ever 
happened,  it  is  within  the  range  of  human  possi 
bility  that  a  man  might  be  shorn  of  two  sus 
pender  buttons  at  once.  If,  further,  the  hotel 
management  were  co-ordinated  with  the  gentle 
men's  underwear  business  a  safety  pin  would  be 
served  along  with  the  suspender  button — in  view 
of  the  singular  fact  that,  until  your  wife  has 
taken  a  reef  in  them,  all  nether  garments  are 

[19] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

much  too  great  in  girth  for  any  figure  at  all 
approximating  normal. 

Working,  however,  as  it  does,  with  human 
material  no  hotel  can  get  away  with  perfection. 
For,  as  Dr.  Johnson  observed,  "a  fallible  being 
will  fail  somewhere."  It  was  in  San  Francisco 
recently  that  three  days  were  required  for  me  to 
recover  a  suit  sent  in  the  morning  to  be  pressed 
by  that  afternoon.  This  mischance  was  occa 
sioned  by  three  circumstances.  To  wit:  goblins 
(presumably)  made  away  with  the  ticket  at 
tached  to  it;  the  hotel  tailor  fell  indisposed  with 
(I  hope)  leprosy;  and  his  assistant  had  a  slight 
mental  infirmity,  in  other  words  he  was  seven 
times  an  idiot. 

Reverse  English  in  Los  Angeles  a  few  days 
later.  When  one  night  I  found  neatly  hung  on  the 
coat  frame  in  my  closet  a  suit  of  excellent  mate 
rial,  of  fashionable  design,  and  seemingly  of  vir 
gin  character.  I  reported  the  matter  to  the  third 
assistant  manager.  One  criticism  only  I  have 
to  make  of  that  suit.  It  was  too  confoundedly 
tight. 

Then,  of  course,  even  at  the  best  places  :(I 
almost  think  particularly  in  the  best  places)  you 
[20] 


THE  HOTEL  GUEST 

are  likely  any  time  to  find  under  your  door  in 
the  morning  a  telephone  message  stamped 
"Rush,"  directing  you  to  call  so-and-so  "as  soon 
as  possible" — and  dated  5:17^/2  two  days  earlier. 
Or,  on  coming  in  you  are  handed  by  the  clerk  a 
memorandum  which  states  that  Mr.  Cohan  tele 
phoned.  Such  matters,  you  reflect,  are  retro 
gressive.  If  you  are  unacquainted  with  any 
gentleman  of  the  name  of  Mr.  Cohan,  so  it  may 
very  well  be  that  the  guest  here  who  is  a  friend 
of  Mr.  Cohan  received  notice  that  your  friend 
Mr.  Sloan  telephoned.  And  there  you  are! 

My  friend  Harry  Heartydrop  (who,  I  de 
clare  !  looks  rosier  even  than  before  the  middle  of 
January,  1920)  has  adopted  a  hotel  life  alto 
gether  of  late.  He  explains  to  me  that  the  advan 
tage  of  this  is  the  new  side-line  activity  of  nu 
merous  compassionate  bell  captains,  who,  it  seems 
—but  that  would  be  telling. 

One  of  the  pleasantest  things,  I  think,  about 
hotels  is  the  "night  maid  service"  furnished  at 
fashionable  places.  When  you  come  in  you  find 
your  light  burning  and  so  do  not  break  your 
shins,  and  your  bed  is  "turned  down"  for  you. 
Very  softening  to  the  spirit,  this.  In  a  kind  of  a 

[21] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

sort  of  a  hazy  way  one's  thoughts  turn  back  to 
the  maternal  solicitude  which  used  to  "tuck" 


one  "in." 


Good  night! 


[22] 


CHAPTER  II 

A    HUMORIST   MISFITS   AT   A    MURDER   TRIAL 

ARE  you  in  on  the  great  Crime  Wave, 
brother?  Almost  everybody  is,  I  guess, 
in  one  way  or  another.  What's  your  particular 
line?  Murderer,  bandit,  burglar,  mortally 
wounded  innocent  bystander,  juror,  witness,  or 
victim?  The  police  are  in  on  it,  too;  every  once 
in  awhile  one  of  them  gets  blackjacked,  or  some 
thing  like  that. 

I  had  the  flu  bad  enough,  when  that  was  the 
big  thing  going;  but  somehow  so  far  I  myself 
have  escaped  being  caught  in  the  Crime  Wave. 
This  gives  me  the  great  advantage  over  most 
people  of  being  a  detached  spectator  of  the 
rollicking  game. 

I  have  a  friend,  though,  who  was  caught  up 
just  a  few  days  ago.  He  has  been  telling  me  all 
about  it.  Murder  case. 

This  fellow  is  a  sort  of  author.  He  had  served 
a  time  or  two  as  a  juror  in  the  Supreme  Court 

[23] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

of  New  York  County.  In  that  building  down 
by  the  City  Hall.  But  he  says  those  cases  bored 
him  terribly.  They  were  chicken-feed  sort  of 
rows,  generally  concerned  with  the  question  of 
how  many  dollars  and  fractions  thereof  X  had 
occasioned  the  loss  of  to  Z  by  reason  of  his  failure 
to  deliver  such  and  such  a  quantity  of  (say) 
beeswax  before  the  drop  in  the  market  of  39. T1^ 
cents,  as  called  for  by  telephone  agreement,  pos 
sibly.  The  "Court"  (a  nice,  pink  and  grey  old 
fellow)  would  go  to  sleep,  with  his  mouth  open, 
during  the  drone  of  the  legal  argument,  and  be 
awakened  automatically  (apparently  by  some 
change  in  atmospheric  conditions)  at  the  mo 
ment  required  for  him  to  begin  his  charge  to  the 
jury.  Occasionally,  he  would  come  semi-to  for 
an  instant  before  this,  and  indistinctly  utter 
the  words,  "Objection  sustained." 

My  friend's  chief  impression  of  these  proceed 
ings  is  his  recollection  of  one  phenomenon  which 
he  observed.  Not  long  after  the  opening  of  the 
presentation  of  X's  side  of  the  case  he  saw  very 
clearly  that  Z  hadn't  a  leg  to  stand  on.  It  was 
ridiculous  that  he  had  the  face  to  come  into 
court  with  an  attempt  to  question  the  truth  of 
facts  which  were  as  apparent  to  the  naked  eye 
[24] 


AT  A  MURDER  TRIAL 

as  the  Woolworth  Building.  My  friend  felt  it 
needless  to  pay  any  further  attention  to  the  fool 
ish  formalities  of  the  argument.  If  he  had  not 
had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  he  might  get  pinched 
for  this,  he  would  have  gone  to  sleep,  like  the 
Judge. 

But  those  were  dull  days  in  the  jury  business. 

A  little  later  my  friend  gets  some  sort  of  a 
ticket  instructing  him  to  call  and  talk  things  over 
with  a  gentleman  having  the  university  degree 
of  Commissioner  of  Jurors.  This  gentleman  asks 
my  friend  if  he  has  ever  been  arrested  on  a  crimi 
nal  charge,  if  he  is  opposed  to  capital  punish 
ment,  and  if  he  has  any  prejudice  against  Episco 
palians.  My  friend  is  a  man  of  liberal  mind,  and 
replies  that  he  would  just  as  soon  hang  an  Epis 
copalian  as  anybody  else.  "You're  on,"  said  the 
gentleman,  reaching  for  a  blotter ;  and  signed  him 
up.  My  friend  didn't  know  exactly  for  what. 
But  the  gentleman  said  everything  was  all  right, 
they  might  not  call  on  my  friend  for  a  long  time, 
and  then  perhaps  it  would  be  a  short  case. 

Sometime  back  was  all  this.  My  friend  had 
almost  forgotten  about  his  acquaintance  with  the 
Commissioner.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  the  gong 
sounds  and  the  great  Crime  Wave  is  on.  Detec- 

[25] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

lives  dash  madly  about  with  shotguns.  A  jeweller 
is  shot  every  day  after  lunch  and  a  subway 
ticket-seller  is  robbed  directly  after  every  train 
starts.  My  friend  hurries  home  early  because 
everybody  is  fined  who  is  caught  on  any  paved 
street  after  dark,  and  there  in  his  letter-box  is  the 
summons  from  his  old  friend  the  Commissioner, 
who  apparently  has  borne  him  in  mind  all  this 
while. 

On  the  document  is  printed  by  a  printing- 
press,  "Jack  Hammond  vs.  The  People  of  the 
State  of  New  York."  And  on  it  is  written  with 
a  pen  my  friend's  name,  before  the  printed  words 
"Special  Juror."  It  very  urgently  invites  my 
friend  to  appear  at  ten  o'clock  four  days  distant 
at  the  Criminal  Courts  Building  and  there 
"await  further  order  of  the  Court." 

You  get  off  the  subway  at  Brooklyn  Bridge, 
you  know,  and  go,  past  the  Municipal  Building, 
up  Centre  Street.  A  district  around  behind  the 
"lanes"  (as  they  say  of  steamship  travel)  of 
general  traffic,  and  one  infrequently  traversed  by 
my  friend.  He  was  much  interested  in  the  spec 
tacle  hereabout.  Buildings  labelled  Public 
Health  on  this  hand,  buildings  labelled  Public 
Records  on  that.  Then  you  come  to  that  prison 
[26] 


AT  A  MURDER  TRIAL 

as  gruesome  in  its  name  as  the  Tower  of  Lon 
don  is  romantic  in  its  connotation — the  Tombs. 
The  structure  itself,  a  cluster  of  rather  slender 
wings,  rises  from  behind  its  dark  walls  with  an 
element  of  grace,  in  contrast  to  that  chill,  squat, 
mouldering  pile  which  begot  and  bequeathed  the 
historic  name.  Ugh!  though,  those  barred  win 
dows,  row  upon  row,  give  a  fellow  such  qualms 
as  do  the  ugly  symbols  of  our  mortality.  Even 
though  you  ain't  done  nothin',  make  you  feel 
sorta  faint  like  inside! 

There  in  the  south  wall  is  a  little  door,  like  a 
rabbit  burrow,  with  a  little  group  about  it,  and 
quite  a  small  bustle  going  on.  Standing  in  this 
bit  of  a  doorway,  as  though  she  had  something 
to  do  in  the  way  of  belonging  there,  is  a  queer, 
oval  body  who  looks  much  as  though  she  might 
be  what  is  called  an  "apple  woman."  Marked 
"Visitors'  Entrance,"  this  door.  What  is  it  all 
the  people  on  this  side  of  the  street  are  pausing 
to  look  at  over  there? 

A  cab  is  drawn  up.  From  this  lightly  steps 
(or  flashes)  a  dizzy  dream.  "Floppy"  hat,  scant 
skirt  awhirl,  pink-hued  stockings  gleaming  to  the 
height  of  the  full  curve  behind  the  knee,  tall 
satin  pump-heels  dancing  the  wearer  on  her  toes 

[27] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

—she  swirls  through  the  dark  doorway.  "They 
all  have  their  wimmin,"  remarks  a  blousy -looking 
loiterer  to  my  friend. 

At  the  north,  three  stories  up,  the  prison  con 
nects  with  the  courts  building  by  that  fabled 
structure  the  "bridge  of  sighs." 

Lively  scene  before  the  main  entrance  to  this 
edifice  on  Centre  Street.  Streams  of  figures 
hurrying  up  the  broad  front  steps — on  their  way 
to  a  busy  day  at  the  height  of  the  crime  season. 
Taxis  flying  up  and  discharging  chattering 
groups  as  at  a  theatre.  Open  pops  a  taxi  door, 
out  leap  three.  A  couple  of  very  hard-looking 
young  men,  of  that  sawed-off ,  stocky  stature  fre 
quently  observed  in  this  type  of  very  hard-look 
ing  young  man.  Elegantly  dressed,  these;  be 
tween  them  one  of  "Oh!-you-beautiful-doll" 
type.  Rapidly  they  make  their  way  up  the  steps, 
as  though  very  well  acquainted  with  the  place. 

Regular  jam  inside.  My  friend  learned  from 
an  attendant  that  his  particular  destination  was 
two  flights  up.  Great  crush  wedging  into  the 
elevator.  Elevator  man  calls  out  merrily  to  an 
acquaintance  he  observes  outside  his  door:  "It's 
a  great  life  if  you  don't  weaken!" 

Threads  his  way,  my  friend,  around  the  bal- 
[28] 


AT  A  MURDER  TRIAL 

cony,  so  to  say,  upstairs.  Centre  of  building 
open  from  ground  floor  to  roof.  Effect:  spa 
cious,  beautiful,  ornamented  in  the  richness  of 
a  house  of  grand  opera.  Finds  the  right  door. 
Card  on  the  wall  nearby.  Several  persons 
(tough-looking  youths  in  caps  and  soft  collars) 
reading  it.  It  lists  previous  day's  proceedings 
in  this  court  room.  Says:  So-and-so;  Murder; 
Indicted  (or  something  like  that).  Then  the 
names  of  attorneys  for  the  defense  given.  Sec 
ond  line:  So-and-so;  Murder;  etc.  Third  line: 
So-and-so;  Murder.  Fourth  line:  So-and-so; 
Grand  Larceny.  Next  line:  So-an-so;  Rape. 
Next :  Murder.  And  so  on.  Sure,  my  friend  thinks, 
I've  got  to  the  real  shop  this  time.  He  has  a  few 
moments  yet,  and  so  he  strolls  over  to  a  door  at 
the  opposite  side  of  the  building.  'Nother  card 
there.  Same  sort  of  thing:  murder,  murder, 
grand  larceny,  homicide,  murder,  murder.  (If 
you  don't  believe  it,  go  down  there  and  look  at 
those  cards.)  "Holy  cat!"  says  my  friend  to 
himself,  "comparatively  little  of  this  crime  stuff 
gets  into  the  papers,  after  all,  don't  it?  I  never 
heard  of  any  of  these  cases." 

Enters   court   room.     Takes   a   seat.     Room 
soon  filled.    Now  in  my  friend's  experience  as 

[29] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

a  petit  juror  he  had  found  himself  among  a 
rather  grotesque  company  of  very  small  charac 
ters,  frequently  somewhat  seedy  in  outward 
effect.  Here  he  was  much  struck  by  the  decid 
edly  first-rate  quality  in  appearance  of  practi 
cally  every  man  in  the  room.  Also,  before,  he 
had  observed  with  a  good  deal  of  annoyance  that 
a  court  of  law  could  consume  about  twenty-nine 
times  the  time  in  accomplishing  a  very  simple 
matter  that  would  be  devoted  to  a  thing  of  simi 
lar  consequence  in  any  practical  business  office. 
Here  in  this  flourishing  mill  for  dealing  with 
capital  crime  the  clerk  of  the  court  (or  what 
ever  you  call  him)  began  to  call  the  roll  of  jurors 
present  fifteen  minutes  before  the  hour  set  for 
opening  of  court.  And  so  did  affairs  proceed 
with  well-oiled  despatch. 

"Oyez  -  mumble  -  jumble  -  jabber  -  jabber  - 
yah  -  meow  -  wow  -  jumble  -  jabber  -  jumble"  (or 
whatever  the  devil  it  is),  sang  out  the  attendant 
who  cries  out  that.  Everybody  at  once  gets  to 
his  feet.  In  comes  his  corpulent  Honor,  swing 
ing  along  briskly,  his  gown  flowing  out  behind, 
and  mounts  to  his  wooden-canopied  throne.  A 
large,  glossy,  rather  handsome  face,  neatly 
cropped  dark  moustache,  eye-glasses  swinging 
[30] 


AT  A  MURDER  TRIAL 

from  a  broad  black  ribbon.  General  effect  what 
might  be  called  that  of  a  heavy-weight  "club 
man,"  looks  as  if  he  might  be  quite  a  hearty  fellow 
when  out  with  "the  boys." 

Door  opens  at  back  of  room.  Sound  of  march 
ing  steps.  Then  are  seen  coming  along  through  a 
zoo-like  cage  round  two  sides  of  the  room  three 
figures,  burly  civilian-clothed  one  in  the  middle, 
uniformed  officer  fore  and  aft.  They  line  up 
this  side  of  a  rail  fencing  the  jurors  off  from  an 
area  before  the  Judge.  Burly  figure  is  very 
well  dressed.  Stands  solidly  on  his  feet,  eyes 
trained  directly  on  the  Judge.  Holds  a  dark  soft 
hat  in  his  hands  which  he  clasps  behind  his  back. 
What  from  a  position  somewhat  to  the  rear  can 
be  seen  of  the  side  of  his  face  reveals  a  heavy  scar, 
the  result  evidently  of  a  knife  slash  across  one 
cheek.  The  Judge  puts  his  palms  together  and 
addresses  this  person.  "You  are  charged  with 
murder,"  he  begins.  He  says  it  rather  gently, 
in  a  somewhat  chiding  manner,  as  though  he  had 
said,  "Bad  fellow,  bad  fellow."  Just  then,  "For 
the  defendant!"  calls  out  an  attendant,  and 
another  figure  hurries  forward. 

The  defendant's  attorneys  have  not  appeared, 
it  seems.  Their  case  is  not  quite  prepared.  A 

[31] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

postponement  is  asked.  "Why  is  it  not  pre 
pared?"  asks  the  Judge.  The  defendant  speaks 
out.  Declares  his  attorney  has  not  been  paid. 
Judge's  reply  is  that  the  attorney  provided  for 
him  is  an  able  man,  who  will  see  that  all  his  rights 
are  observed.  Grants  postponement  until  the 
next  morning,  positively  no  further.  Officer  by 
his  side  plucks  defendant's  coat  tail,  and  starts 
him  off  back  through  the  cage.  As  he  goes  he  is 
heard  to  say  that  his  attorney  will  not  be  there  in 
the  morning  either. 

And  as  he  turns,  my  friend  gets,  with  a 
shock,  a  full-face  view  of  him.  He  had  never 
expected  anybody  off  the  melodramatic  stage  to 
look  so  much  like  a  murderer.  Scarey,  that  face, 
a  countenance  almost  majestic  in  its  ruthlessness 
and  force:  gangster,  gunman,  typically  person 
ified. 

Jurors  excused  until  ten-thirty  next  day.  As 
they  move  toward  the  door,  two  attractively 
dressed  young  women  arise  from  the  rear.  "Who 
are  the  ladies?"  asks  one.  "Friends  of  the  defend 
ant,"  says  another. 

Next  day,  game  called  sharp  on  the  stroke  of 
the  clock.  Following  preliminaries  of  the  day 
before,  attendant  spins  that  little  roulette  wheel 
[32] 


AT  A  MURDER  TRIAL 

sort  of  an  affair.  Looks  at  slip  thus  drawn. 
"John  Cole,"  he  cries.  Mr.  Cole  passes  round 
behind  jury  box,  reappears  in  far  comer  at  left 
of  Judge.  "Rigmarole  -  rigmarole  -  solemnly 
swear,  rigmarole,"  chaunts  attendant  there, 
thrusting  very  dilapidated  Bible  before  him.  Mr. 
Cole  takes  what  later  will  be  the  witness  chair. 

Assistant  district  attorney  arises  and  explains 
the  case  to  him.  The  charge  is  murder  in  the 
first  degree.  The  prosecution  must  rely  largely 
on  the  testimony  of  an  accomplice. 

Defendant  sits  in  whispered  consultation  with 
his  attorney,  his  arm  almost  around  him.  As 
prosecutor  seats  himself,  attorney  for  the  defense 
gets  up  to  put  Mr.  Cole  through  his  paces.  A 
fat,  oily-looking  man,  with  (it  is  evident)  a 
browbeating  manner  in  reserve. 

Has  Mr.  Cole,  or  anyone  "near  and  dear"  to 
him,  recently  met  with  any  "accident"  at  the 
hands  of  robbers?  No.  He  will  not,  then,  have 
a  revengeful  feeling  toward  any  person  charged 
with  crime  ?  Not  at  all.  Would  he  give  the  same 
weight  to  the  "story"  of  a  "self-confessed  thief 
and  murderer"  that  he  would  to  the  testimony  of 
a  "man  of  probity"?  Probably  not.  Now, 
doubtless,  Mr.  Cole  is  a  reader  of  newspapers* 

[33] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

He  has,  of  course,  seen  this  "literature"  (with  a 
sneer),  this  "newspaper  hysteria"  about  a 
"c-r-i-m-e  wave"  (tongue  in  cheek).  Well,  can 
Mr.  Cole  go  into  the  jury  box  and  look  at  this 
case  detached  from  the  "atmosphere"  now  "being 
created  by  the  newspapers"?  Finally,  is  Mr. 
Cole  acquainted  with  anyone  connected  with  the 
police  department  ? 

Mr.  Cole,  for  some  reason,  strikes  out. 

Third  man  accepted.  He  comes  around  from 
behind  it  to  enter  the  jury  box.  At  the  gateway, 
while  defendant  stands  and  faces  him,  some  more 
rigmarole-mumble- j  umble  business. 

Suddenly  my  friend  is  called.  His  business? 
asks  district  attorney.  A  writer,  he  replies. 
Defendant  and  his  attorney  exchange  strange 
glances.  Undoubtedly  there  is  something  low 
and  suspicious  about  a  fellow  with  such  a  busi 
ness.  Attorney  for  the  defense  comes  forward 
hurriedly.  Soon  takes  my  friend  in  hand.  He  at 
once  adopts  the  sarcastic.  My  friend's  work 
must  require  unusual  "observation."  He  must 
be  "gifted"  with  "great  powers  of  de-duct-shun" 
(said  out  of  one  corner  of  his  mouth).  Of 
course,  he  has  too  a  "fine  imagination."  By  the 
[34] 


AT  A  MURDER  TRIAL 

way,  what  is  the  nature  of  his  writing?  Has  he 
written  any  novels? 

No,  my  friend  says,  he  is  a  humorous  writer. 
"A  what?"  exclaims  the  lawyer,  his  mouth  re 
maining  open.  Then,  "Like  Don  Marker?" 
"Somewhat,"  says  my  friend.  Lawyer  visibly 
pales.  Withdrawing  toward  counsel  table,  looks 
back  at  the  accused,  who  vigorously  shakes  his 
head. 

"Excused  by  per-emptory  challenge,"  utters 
lawyer,  dropping  into  his  chair. 


[35] 


CHAPTER  III 

QUEER  THING,  'BOUT  UNDERTAKERS'  SHOPS 

QUEER  thing,  that,  about  undertakers' 
shops!  I  don't  remember  to  have  been 
struck  by  undertakers'  shops  in  San  Francisco. 
Maybe  they  have  none  there — because,  as  you'll 
see,  it's  a  queer  thing  about  them. 

Now  in  Indianapolis  undertaking  is  a  very 
fashionable  affair.  People  there,  apparently, 
want  "class"  in  the  matter  of  being  finally  dis 
posed  of.  They  believe,  evidently,  with  the 
author  of  the  popular  little  idyl,  "Urn  Burial," 
that  "Man  is  a  noble  animal,  splendid  in  ashes 
and  pompous  in  the  tomb." 

The  most  aristocratic  street  in  that  city  is 
named  North  Meridian  Street.  A  street,  until  a 
short  time  ago,  entirely  of  stately  lawns  and 
patrician  homes — mansions.  Of  late,  a  little 
business,  shops  of  the  most  distinguished  char 
acter,  has  been  creeping  up  this  street  from  down 
town.  Notably,  de  luxe  motor  car  salesrooms, 
[36] 


'BOUT  UNDERTAKERS'  SHOPS 

studios  of  highly  aesthetic  photographers,  and 
particularly  palatial  undertaking  establishments. 
They  are,  these  last,  wondrous  halls,  which  surely 
none  could  enter  but  those  who  (in  life)  had 
been  rich  in  treasure.  Features  of  the  city  are 
they— "sights." 

But  here's  the  riddle: 

Strolling  about  New  York,  from  river  to  river, 
uptown  and  down,  one  might  readily  fancy  that 
here  only  the  poor  pass  out  of  the  world.  Or 
that  if  the  rich  and  fashionable  ever  die  their 
bodies  are  mysteriously  spirited  away  to  desti 
nations  unknown;  or  are  secretly  preserved 
(presumably  by  some  taxidermal  process)  in 
their  homes. 

Why?  Well,  where  on  Fifth  Avenue  is  an 
undertaker's  ?  True,  a  man  I  know  declares  there 
is  a  single  one  there.  I  am  unable  to  find  it. 
Where  on  any  fine  street  of  the  metropolis? 
Why,  yes ;  as  a  rare  phenomenon.  You  do  know, 
of  course,  that  enormous  place  on  upper  Broad 
way.  Sign  says  branches  in  Paris,  London, 
Berlin,  Petrograd. 

Viewed  through  the  great  windows  interior 
presents  somewhat  the  effect  of  the  Metropolitan 
Museum  of  Art.  In  foreground  large  harp, 

[37] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

equally  huge  Chinese  vase — probably  of  the 
Tang  Wang  period,  on  great  marble  pedestal 
enormous  bronze  of  a  mounted  Diana  repelling 
with  spear  attack  of  ferocious  animal  resembling 
tiger.  Appropriateness  of  this  sculpture  some 
what  puzzling.  On  wall,  somewhat  further 
within,  immense  tapestry.  One  door  labelled 
"Delivery  Entrance."  All  of  this,  of  course,  is 
magnificence  as  much  as  even  the  most  covetous 
would  crave. 

But  in  New  York  this  august  undertaking  hall 
is  an  anachronism.  Here,  for  some  reason  mys 
terious,  it  is  in  shabby  neighborhoods  that  the 
"parlors"  of  undertakers  abound.  You  may  find 
them  sprinkled  all  about  the  lower  East  Side. 
Frequent  on  Hudson  Street,  and,  say,  on  Varick. 
Quaint  and  curious  places,  these.  Very  human 
in  their  appeal.  Tiny  places,  most  of  them. 

One  such  cozy  crib  I  know  on  Greenwich  Ave 
nue.  Has  a  stained  glass  screen  in  the  window, 
suggesting  a  good  deal  the  style  of  window  orna 
mentation  popular  with  that  American  institu 
tion  lately  deceased — the  saloon.  The  social 
spirit  rife  in  small  undertaking  shops,  at  least 
in  some  of  them,  is  pleasant  to  observe.  Busi 
ness  there  not  being  pressing,  and  life  moving  in 
[38] 


'BOUT  UNDERTAKERS'  SHOPS 

these  inns  of  death  in  a  leisurely  and  quiet  cur 
rent,  neighborly  amenities  appear  to  be  much 
cultivated. 

This  place  of  which  I  speak  has,  particularly  in 
the  evenings,  much  the  air  of  a  club,  where  choice 
spirits  of  the  locality  foregather  to  discuss  poli 
tics,  it  may  be,  and  the  more  engrossing  forms  of 
sport,  such  as  boxing.  And  perhaps  relish  a 
little  game  at  cards.  I  often  pass  this  place  at 
night  and  feel  a  warmth  of  spirit  at  the  hum  of 
jovial  social  contact  within. 

I  like,  too,  the  way  the  undertakers'  shops 
of  the  humble  and  obscure  carry  on  cheek  by 
jowl  with  the  familiar,  homely,  friendly  things  of 
life.  This  gives  Death  a  neighborly  sort  of  air. 
On  my  walks  in  that  quarter  I  always  give  a 
friendly  glance  to  the  windows  of  a  "Cremation 
Ass'n"  on  Eighth  Avenue,  on  one  side  of  it 
a  delicatessen  shop,  on  the  other  a  "loan  office," 
in  the  basement  below  a  plumber. 

Attractive,  too,  is  it  to  consider  how  founders 
of  tidy  undertaking  houses  have  become  person 
ages  and  are  held  in  revered  esteem.  For  they 
are  not,  it  would  seem,  like  unto  those  who  have 
established  just  ordinary  businesses.  This  I  will 
show  you: 

[39] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

At  a  corner  of  Twenty-third  Street,  over  a 
telegraph  office,  is  an  establishment  of  some  caste. 
Window  legend  reads:  "Undertakers — Crema 
tions — Night  and  Day — Interments  in  all  Ceme 
teries."  The  last  phrase  reminds  me  of  the  way 
my  old  friend  James  Huneker  used  to  date  his 
letters  to  me  from  Brooklyn.  They  began, 
"Flatbush  by  the  C— emeteries."  But  that's  not 
the  point.  It's  a  pity  the  alert  English  writer 
who  recently  visited  us  and  discovered  a  statue 
of  General  Grant  in  Grant  Park,  overlooking 
the  Blackstone  (where  nobody  had  ever  seen  one 
before),  and  that  the  huge  bust  of  Washington 
Irving  in  Bryant  Park,  behind  the  New  York 
Public  Library,  was  an  effigy  of  Father  George 
Washington — it's  a  rotten  shame  E.  V.  Lucas 
missed  this  corner  while  here. 

Because  when  you  go  round  this  corner  you 
are  to  look  up  just  above  the  level  of  your  head. 
(Though  I'm  afraid  you  neglect  to  do  this.) 
There  on  a  ledge  is  a  grand  sight.  It's  a  bust  of 
God.  Fact!  Anyhow,  looks  just  like  pictures 
of  God  William  Blake  used  to  make.  Old  gen 
tleman.  Noble  brow.  Patriarchal  beard,  flow 
ing  out  in  a  pattern  of  rhythmical  waves — most 
realistically  mildewed  by  time  and  weather.  .  .  . 
[40] 


'BOUT  UNDERTAKERS'  SHOPS 

But,  no;  inquiry  reveals  that  it's  a  likeness  of  the 
founder  of  this  "old  established"  undertaking 
concern. 

Then  there's  that  place  a  short  step  down 
Eighth  Avenue.  It  declares  on  its  sign  that  it 
is  the  "original"  house  bearing  the  name  of  the 
Reverend  gentleman  who  conducts  it.  When 
you  look  through  the  glass  in  the  door  you  view 
just  within,  displayed  on  an  ornamental  easel, 
ia  life-size  crayon  portrait,  enlarged  from  a  pho 
tograph,  of  a  distinguished-looking  person  wear 
ing  brown  Dundreary  whiskers  and  a  top  hat. 
One  corner  of  the  portrait  is  gracefully  draped 
in  an  American  flag. 

Yes;  you'd  be  surprised  how  strong  under 
takers  are  on  patriotism.  Hard  by  here,  next 
door  to  a  dentist  advertising  "painless  extrac 
tion,"  you  find  a  -firm  of  "Funeral  Directors" 
where  conspicuous  among  such  ornaments  as  tall, 
bronze  lamps  with  big  shades,  a  spittoon,  a  little 
model  of  a  casket  and  an  urn,  is  a  large  bronze 
bust  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  A  plate  says:  "No 
Charge  for  Rooms  or  Chapels  for  Funerals." 
And  above  stairs  is  seen  a  row  of  somewhat  eccle 
siastical  stained-glass  windows.  Though  we  are 

[41] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

given  to  understand  by  an  advertisement  that  the 
atmosphere  of  these  chapels  is  "non-sectarian." 

Then  over  on  Third  Avenue  (where  there  are 
lots  and  lots  of  undertakers)  is  a  place.  Always 
sitting  just  within  the  doorway,  very  silent,  a 
stout,  very  solemn  individual  wearing  a  large, 
black  derby  hat  and  big,  round,  green-lens  spec 
tacles.  Above  him  on  the  wall  a  framed  litho 
graph  in  colors  of  George  Washington — beside 
it  a  thermometer.  In  the  window  a  rubber-plant. 
Rubber-plants  varying  in  size  from  infant  to  ele 
phant  are  in  the  windows  of  all  undertakers. 
The  symbolism  of  this  decoration  I  know  not. 
Beside  the  plant  an  infant's  white  casket,  pro 
claimed  by  a  poster  which  leans  against  it  to  be 
composed  of  "purity  metal."  In  some  places  the 
casket,  perhaps  not  of  purity  metal,  is  protected 
by  being  enclosed  in  a  glass  case.  The  name  of 
the  proprietor  of  this  shop,  as  given  on  his  sign, 
ends  in  "skey."  Set  in  the  door-frame  is  the 
usual  "Night  Bell."  And,  as  always  in  under 
takers'  shops,  the  card  of  a  "notary  public"  is 
displayed.  Next  door  "Family  Shoes"  are 
featured. 

Only  yesterday  afternoon  I  was  looking  in  at 
the  window  of  an  undertaker  on  Second  Avenue, 
[42] 


'BOUT  UNDERTAKERS'  SHOPS 

one  I  had  just  found.  Along  the  curb  before  the 
door  a  string  of  rather  frayed  and  wobbly -look 
ing  "hacks,"  with  a  rusty-black  hearse  at  the 
head.  Horses  to  these  vehicles  drowsy  in  dis 
position,  moth-eaten  in  effect  as  to  pelt,  and  in 
the  visibility  of  their  anatomical  structure  sug 
gesting  that  they  might  have  been  drawn  by 
Albert  Diirer  in  some  particularly  melancholy 
mood. 

In  groups  along  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  con 
versing  in  subdued  tones,  the  Dickensesque 
drivers  of  this  caravan.  Tall  and  gaunt,  some; 
short  and  stout,  others.  Skirt  coat  on  one,  "sack" 
coat  on  another.  Alike  in  this :  frayed  and  rusty 
and  weather-beaten,  all.  And  hard,  very  hard  of 
countenance.  Each  topped  by  a  very  tall,  and 
quite  cylindrical  hat  of  mussed,  shoddy-black, 
plush  texture.  Hangovers,  so  to  say,  these  fig 
ures,  from  New  York's  hansom-cab  days,  or 
the  time  in  London  of  the  "four-wheeler." 

No,  not  altogether.  There  was  something 
piquant  —  Villonesque,  or  jovial  —  Rabelaisian, 
about  the  pickpockets  of  that  tribe.  These  sol 
emn  mummers  strike  a  ghoulish  note.  But  at  the 
same  time,  out  here  in  the  sane  and  cheerful  sun- 

[43] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

light,  they  don't  look  real.  Create  an  odd  im 
pression.  Strikes  you  as  about  as  queer,  this 
bunch,  as  if  a  lot  of  actors  from  a  melodrama 
should  turn  up  in  the  street  with  their  makeup 
on  and  gravely  pretend  to  belong  to  real  life. 

"Perhaps,"  I  thought,  "there  is  a  funeral,  or 
something,  going  on  inside,  and  I  should  not  be 
gaping  in  at  this  window." 

Out  of  doorway  pops  little,  rotund  man, 
oily  countenance.  "Are  you  looking  for  any 
body?"  he  asks. 

"Here,"  I  said  inwardly,  "is  where  I  get  moved 
on."  No,  I  told  him,  I  was  just  observing  his 
window. 

"Ah!"  he  cried,  immensely  flattered.  He 
waved  his  hand  back  toward  a  couple  of  little, 
marble  crosses  with  hearts  carved  in  relief  on 
the  base.  "You  don't  often  see  that,  do  you? 
Do  you,  now?  They're  sixty  years  old.  Made 
out  of  a  single  piece!" 

But  the  saddest  thing  about  undertakers' 
shops  is  to  go  by  where  was  one  long  familiar  to 
you  and  find  it  gone.  There  was  a  splendid  little 
place  which  it  was  a  great  consolation  to  me  to 
admire.  That  building  is  now  given  over  to  an 
enterprise  called  "The  Goody  Shop."  Its  lofty 
[44] 


'BOUT  UNDERTAKERS'  SHOPS 

dignity  and  deep  eloquence  are  gone!  It  looks 
like  a  department  store.  It  is  labelled,  with  the 
blare  of  a  brass  band,  "The  Home  of  Pussy 
Willow  Chocolates." 


[45] 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  HAIR  CUT  THAT  WENT  TO   MY   HEAD 

ID  ID  not  expect  anything  in  particular  when 
I  went  in.  Though,  indeed,  it  is  a  very 
famous  place.  That  is,  the  hotel  is — the 
Brevoort. 

The  name  itself,  Brevoort,  is  very  rich  in 
romantic  Knickerbocker  associations.  Probably 
you  know  all  about  that.  Or,  possibly,  you  don't 
know — or  have  forgotten.  Well,  you  do  know 
how  Broadway  curves  around  there  at  Tenth 
Street.  That  ought  to  recall  Hendrick  Brevoort 
to  you.  His  farm  was  all  about  this  neighbor 
hood.  Caused  this  kink,  he  did,  so  it  is  said. 

This  valorous  descendant  of  the  old  burgher 
defied  the  commissioners  to  destroy  his  home 
stead,  which  lay  in  the  proposed  path  of  Broad 
way.  Or  to  cut  down  a  favorite  tree  which 
blocked  the  intended  course  of  Eleventh  Street. 
Stood  at  his  threshold  with  a  blunderbuss  in  his 
trembling  old  hands  (so  the  story  has  it),  when 
the  workmen  arrived  to  carry  out  their  instruc- 
[46] 


THE  HAIR  CUT 

tions  to  demolish  the  house — and  carried  his 
point  so  effectively  that  Broadway  was  deflected 
from  its  course,  while  Eleventh  Street  between 
Broadway  and  Fourth  Avenue  was  never  com 
pleted.  Grace  Church,  which  now  stands  at 
about  where  valiant  Henry  stood  that  day,  was 
built  by  a  descendant  of  his,  the  architect  also  of 
St.  Patrick's  Cathedral. 

I  like  to  think  of  these  matters  sometimes 
when  I  enter  the  cool  cream  beauty  of  this 
ancient  frame  hostelry. 

Also  of  another  Henry  Brevoort,  a  descendant 
of  the  original  proprietor  of  the  farm  in  New 
Netherland,  who  built  the  substantial  old  double 
house  at  the  corner  of  Ninth  Street  and  Fifth 
Avenue.  Fine  iron  balconies,  pillared  door, 
within  a  small  green  enclosure,  and  a  walled 
garden  to  one  side:  all  preserved. 

Here  was  held  (in  1840)  the  first  masked  ball 
given  in  New  York.  An  affair  of  picturesque 
celebrity,  on  account  of  the  occasion  it  furnished 
a  famous  beauty  of  the  day,  Miss  Mathilda  Bar 
clay,  daughter  of  Anthony  Barclay,  the  British 
consul,  to  elope  in  fancy  dress,  domino  and  mask 
with  a  certain  young  Burgwyne  of  South  Caro 
lina,  of  whom  her  parents  had  unamiable  views. 

[47] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

She  went  as  Lalla  Rookh  and  he  as  Feramorz, 
and  in  this  disguise  they  slipped  away  from  the 
ball,  at  four  in  the  morning,  and  were  married. 
That,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  way  for  a  man  who 
does  not  enjoy  solemn  ceremonies  to  be  happy 
while  getting  married. 

Across  the  way,  at  the  corner  of  Eighth  Street, 
the  mellow  white  hotel  maintains  the  distin 
guished  name,  and  touches  "the  Avenue"  with  a 
very  aromatic  French  flavor.  Famous  for  its 
cuisine,  largely  patronized  by  the  transient 
French  population  of  the  city,  a  habitual  port  of 
call  of  many  painters  and  writers,  the  scene  of 
the  annual  Illustrators'  Ball,  and  so  on. 

I  like  within  the  frequent  spectacle  of  gentle 
men  of  magnificent  bulk  and  huge  black  beards, 
in  general  effect  impressively  suggesting  the 
probability  of  their  all  being  Academicians.  I 
like  the  fact  (or  the  hypothesis)  that  all  the 
waiters  are  Looeys  and  Sharses  and  Gastongs. 
I  like  the  little  marble-top  tables  with  wire  spin 
dle  legs.  I  like  the  lady  patrons  (Oh!  im 
mensely)  who  are  frequently  very  chic  (and  with 
exquisite  ankles).  I  like  the  young  gentlemen 
customers,  who  (many  of  them)  look  exactly  as 
though  their  faces  were  modelled  in  wax,  and  who 
[48] 


THE  HAIR  CUT 

wear  the  sort  of  delicate  moustaches  that  are 
advertised  in  Vanity  Fair. 

But  even  more  I  like  the  quaintness  of  the 
scene  without  doors.  There  along  the  curb,  you 
recall,  stand  (in  summer  beneath  the  pleasant 
greenery  of  drooping  trees),  awaiting  hire,  a 
succession  of  those  delightful,  open,  low-swung, 
horse-drawn  vehicles,  victorias,  which  were  the 
fashionable  thing  at  the  period  named  by  Mrs. 
Wharton  "The  Age  of  Innocence.'*  The  roman 
tically  leisurely  drivers  of  these  unbelievably 
leisurely  craft  are  perfectly  turned  out  to  be, 
so  to  say,  in  the  picture.  They  affect  coachmen's 
coats  (piquantly  tempered  by  age)  with  large 
silver  buttons  and,  in  mild  weather,  top  hats  con 
structed  of  straw,  painted  black.  In  some 
instances  these  coachmen  are  "colored" — which 
is  a  very  pleasant  thing,  too,  I  think. 

This  hotel,  naturally,  has  figured  in  a  number 
of  pieces  of  fiction.  In  Samuel  Merwin's  novel 
"The  Trufflers"  it  is  the  Parisian,  where  Green 
wich  Village,  when  in  funds,  dines,  lunches, 
breakfasts  in  the  little  rooms  which  you  enter 
from  the  Avenue,  directly  under  the  wide  front 
steps,  or  from  the  side  street  through  the  bar, 
and  where  Upper  West  Side,  when  seeking  the 

[49] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

quaintly  foreign  dissociated  from  squalor,  goes 
up  the  steps  into  the  airy  eating  rooms  with  full 
length  hinged  windows  to  dine.  And  where  (in 
this  book )  the  young  lady  whose  blooming  pres 
ence  in  the  barber  shop  in  the  basement  invites 
you  to  manicure  attentions  gives  rise  to  some  very 
dramatic  occurrences.  The  place,  this  shop,  of 
Marius  (as  called  in  the  story),  "the  one  barber 
in  New  York  who  does  not  ask  'Wet  or  dry.' " 
Now  I  had  plumb  forgotten  about  this  barber's 
celebrity  in  fiction  when  the  other  day  I  entered 
this  shop.  And  I  was  struck  with  embarrassment 
by  the  immediate  attentions  of  so  very  distin 
guished  a  figure  as  that  which  sprang  forward  to 
assist  me  out  of  my  coat.  I  thought  surely  this 
gentleman  must  be  some  kind  of  an  Ambassador, 
who  had  perhaps  mistaken  me  for  the  President. 
A  slimmish  man,  obviously  very  French.  Amaz 
ingly,  overwhelmingly  polite.  Fine,  a  very  fine 
beard.  Long.  Swept  his  chest.  Pointed. 
Auburn.  Wavy.  Silken.  Shot  delicately  with 
grey.  Beautifully  kept.  Responded  gently  to 
the  breeze — waving  softly  to  and  fro.  A  most 
beautiful  beard — oh,  my!  And  a  glorious  crown 
of  hair!  It  rose  from  the  line  of  its  parting  in 
a  billowing  wave,  then  fell  with  a  luxuriant  and 
[50] 


THE  HAIR  CUT 

graceful  sweep  to  his  ear.  Only  when  he  had 
tucked  me  in  the  chair  could  I  realize  that  this 
must  be  the  head  barber.  I  had  never  before  had 
the  honor  of  being  served  by,  or  even  of  having 
seen  himself,  the  proprietor  here. 

Then  I  mentioned  Mr.  Merwin's  book.  He 
took  from  a  drawer  several  copies  of  The  Satur 
day  Evening  Post,  in  which  periodical  the  story 
had  appeared  serially,  proudly  to  exhibit  them 
to  me.  So  it  was  we  fell  to  chatting  of  his  place. 
He  had  been  here  some  sixteen  or  eighteen 
years.  Before  he  had  opened  his  shop  this  room 
had  been  several  tiny  rooms;  Cleveland  Moffett 
had  for  a  time  occupied  them  as  a  residence,  and 
had  here  written  his  first  book.  My  friend  gayly 
produced  a  copy  of  an  old  magazine  article  by 
Mr.  Moifett  in  which  mention  was  given  the 

shop. 

******* 

Shaved,  I  was  straightened  up  to  have  my  hair 
trimmed.  And,  being  for  a  moment  free  to  look 
about.  I  spied  a  card  on  the  wall.  It  said : 


SILK  HATS  IRONED 

25^ 
COUP-DE-FER-AU  CHAPEAU 


[51] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

But,  my  goodness!  That  was  not  all.  No, 
indeed ! 

This  very  man  who  was  cutting  my  hair  had 
cut  the  hair  of  General  Joffre — when  he  had  his 
hair  here  in  the  United  States.  At  "Mr. 
Prick's  house,"  where  they  were  guests,  he  had 
attended  the  distinguished  party  on  its  mission 
here.  He  would  go  in  the  morning,  stay  until 
they  had  gone  forth  for  the  day;  return  in  the 
afternoon,  and  spruce  them  up  for  their  evening 
out. 

And  what  did  they  say,  these  great  men  of 
might? 

Well,  Joffre  didn't  say  much.  They  were 
always  out  late — hurry  out  again.  He  shaved 
some  of  them  "almost  in  the  bath."  That  fellow, 
the  Blue  Devil, — one  leg — cane — but  back  and 
forth  from  his  bath  quick  like  anybody.  He  was 
the  most  talkative: 

"I  could  not  but  laugh  at  what  he  told  me. 
I  asked,  'Do  you  speak  English?'  'No,'  he  said, 
'but  I  ought  to.'  'How  is  that?'  I  asked.  'Be 
cause,'  he  said,  'I'm  half  American.'  'Oh!'  I 
said,  'your  father  then  was  American  and  your 
mother  French?'  'No,'  he  said.  'Ah!'  I  say, 
'then  your  mother  was  American  and  your  father 
[52] 


THE  HAIR  CUT 

was  French.'  Do  you  understand?  I  say  that 
to  him.  'No,'  he  say;  'no.'  'What  then?'  I  ask. 
'Why,'  he  say,  'I  have  one  leg  in  France  and  one 
leg  in  America.'  I  could  not  but  laugh.  Do 
you  understand?" 

When  the  visitors  had  departed  Mr.  Frick 
asked  my  friend  for  his  bill.  "Oh,  no!"  he  said; 
"he  would  take  nothing  but  the  great  honor  for 
his  little  services." 

My  hair  cut  was  finished.  As  I  paid  him 
(there  being  in  this  case,  I  felt,  no  such  great 
honor  for  his  little  services),  he  showed  me  a 
drawing  on  the  wall  of  a  poodle  he  had  one  time 
owned.  It  had  died.  Very  sad.  He  was  very 
fond  of  dogs.  Of  bred  dogs,  that  is.  He  bred 
them  himself.  He  handed  me  his  card  as  a  pro 
fessional  dog  fancier.  It  read : 


CHINK  A  TU  KENNELS 

CHOW  CHOWS,  PEKINGESES,  POMERANIANS,  ALL  COLORS 
FROM  PRICE  WINNING  STOCK 

MINIATURE  SPECIMENS 
AT  STUD.     PEKINGESE,  WONDERFUL   SON   OF   WENTY 

OF  HYDEGREE.     FEE  REASONABLE. 
AT  STUD.     LORD  CHOLMONDELEY  III  SON  OF  CHAM 
PION  LORD  CHOLMONDELEY  II. 

TOY  DOGS  BOARDED 
MME.  HENRI  GRECHEN 


[53] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

Yes,  that  morning  he  had  done  "some  mani 
cure  work"  for  his  dogs.  She  looked  up,  the 
manicurist  (milk-white  blonde,  black  velvet 
gown),  and  said,  "Do  you  use  the  clippers?" 

He:  "Yes,  of  course.  But  not  powder  and 
polish.  Quick,  they  want.  Not  hold  hands  for 
hour — conversation  about  best  show  in  town." 

He  bowed,  very  low,  as  I  crossed  his  thresh 
old.  I  turned  and  bowed,  very  low,  to  him.  A 
man  of  many  parts  and  a  barber  illustrious  in  his 
profession.  It  was  some  time  before  my  head 
cooled  off. 


[54] 


CHAPTER  V 

SEEING  MR.  CHESTERTON 

QJOMEWHAT  later  in  this  article  I  am  going 
k^J  to  present  an  "interview"  (or  something 
like  that)  with  Gilbert  K.  Chesterton.  At  least 
I  hope  I  am  going  to  present  it.  Yesterday  it 
looked  as  though  I  might  have  to  get  up  my 
interview  without  having  seen  Mr.  Chesterton. 
Though  today  the  situation  appears  somewhat 
brighter.  "Seeing"  Mr.  Chesterton  (on  his  visit 
over  here,  at  any  rate)  seems  to  be  a  complicated 
matter. 

As  anything  which  gives  some  view  of  the 
workings  of  the  Chestertonian  machinery  ought 
to  be  of  interest  to  all  who  can  lay  claim  to  the 
happy  state  of  mind  of  being  Chestertonites,  I'll 
begin  by  telling  the  proceedings  so  far  in  this 
affair.  Then  as  matters  progress  to  supply  me 
with  more  material  (if  they  do  progress)  I'll 
continue. 

I  one  time  wrote  an  article  in  which  I  told 
with  what  surprising  ease  I  saw  Mr.  Chesterton 

[55] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

several  years  ago  in  England.  Without  acquaint 
ances  in  England,  some  sort  of  a  fit  of  impudence 
seized  me.  I  wrote  Mr.  Chesterton  a  letter,  com 
municating  to  him  the  intelligence  that  I  had 
arrived  in  London,  that  it  was  my  belief  that  he 
was  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  interesting 
monuments  in  England;  and  I  asked  him  if  he 
supposed  that  he  could  be  "viewed"  by  me,  at 
some  street  corner,  say,  at  a  time  appointed,  as 
he  rumbled  past  in  his  triumphal  car.  Mrs. 
Chesterton  replied  directly  in  a  note  that  her 
husband  wished  to  thank  me  for  my  letter  and 
to  say  that  he  would  be  pleased  if  I  cared  to  come 
down  to  spend  an  afternoon  with  him  at  Beacons- 
field.  Mr.  Chesterton,  I  later  recollected,  had 
no  means  readily  at  hand  of  ascertaining  whether 
or  not  I  was  an  American  pickpocket;  but  from 
the  deference  of  his  manner  I  was  led  to  suspect 
that  he  vaguely  supposed  I  was  perhaps  the 
owner  of  the  New  York  Times,  or  somebody  like 
that. 

This  escapade  of  my  visit  to  Overroads  I  sup 
pose  it  was  that  put  into  the  head  of  the  editor 
of  The  Bookman  the  notion  that  I  was  a  person 
with  ready  access  to  Mr.  Chesterton.  So  I  was 
served  with  a  hurry-up  assignment  to  see  him 
[56] 


SEEING  MR.  CHESTERTON 

and  to  deliver  an  article  about  my  seeing  him  for 
the  March  number  of  the  magazine  before  that 
issue,  then  largely  in  the  hands  of  the  printers, 
got  off  the  press.  Thus  my  adventures,  the  ter 
mination  of  which  are  at  present  considerably  up 
in  the  air,  began. 

I  at  once  wrote  to  Mr.  Chesterton  at  the  hotel 
where  at  the  moment  he  was  in  Boston.  At  the 
same  time  I  wrote  to  Lee  Keedick  ("Manager 
of  the  World's  Most  Celebrated  Lecturers")  at 
his  office  in  New  York.  I  had  picked  up  the 
impression  that  a  lecture  manager  of  this  caliber 
owned  outright  the  time  of  a  visiting  celebrity 
whom  he  promoted,  and  that  you  couldn't  even 
telephone  the  celebrity  without  the  manager's 
permission.  I  didn't  know  that  you  couldn't 
telephone  him  anyway.  Or  that  you  couldn't 
telephone  the  manager  either. 

Mr.  Keedick  very  promptly  replied  that  he 
would  be  very  glad  to  do  everything  that  he  could 
to  bring  about  the  interview.  Or  at  least  I 
received  a  very  courteous  letter  to  this  effect 
which  bore  a  signature  which  I  took  to  be  that 
of  Mr.  Keedick. 

Mr.  Chesterton  was  not  to  be  back  in  New 
York  until  after  a  couple  of  days.  On  the  day 

[57] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

set  for  his  return  to  town  I  attempted  to  com 
municate  with  Mr.  Keedick  by  telephone.  I  am 
(I  fear)  a  bit  slow  at  the  etiquette  of  telephones, 
and  I  so  far  provoked  a  young  woman  at  the 
other  end  of  the  wire  as  to  cause  her  to  demand 
rather  sharply,  "Who  are  you?"  This  matter 
adjusted  amicably,  Mr.  Keedick  it  developed 
was  so  utterly  remote  from  attainment  that  I  arc 
not  altogether  sure  such  a  person  exists.  How 
ever,  another  gentleman  responded  cordially 
enough.  Still,  it  seemed  to  me  (upon  reflection) 
that  in  a  matter  of  this  urgent  nature  I  had  been 
at  fault  in  having  failed  to  obtain  more  definite- 
ness  in  the  matter  of  an  appointment.  So  I  went 
round  to  the  manager's  office.  Very  affably 
received.  Presented  to  a  gentleman  fetched  for 
that  purpose  from  another  room,  where  he  had 
been  closeted  with  someone  else.  Mr.  Widde- 
combe,  this  gentleman's  name.  Introduced  as 
Mr.  Chesterton's  secretary.  A  pronounced 
Englishman  in  effect.  Said  very  politely  indeed, 
several  times,  that  he  was  "delighted."  Mr. 
Chesterton,  however,  was  going  away  tomorrow. 
Would  return  two  days  hence.  Made,  Mr. 
Widdecombe,  very  careful  memorandum  of  my 
address. 
[58] 


SEEING  MR.  CHESTERTON 

In  due  course  of  time  thought  I'd  better  look 
up  Mr.  Widdecombe  again — his  memorandum 
might  have  got  mislaid.  Telephoned  lecture 
bureau.  Satisfied  young  lady  of  honorable  inten 
tions.  Explained  matters  all  over  again  to  owner 
of  agreeable  masculine  voice.  Received  assur 
ance  that  Mr.  Widdecombe  would  be  reminded 
at  once  of  pressing  state  of  affairs.  Disturbed 
by  uneventful  flight  of  time,  called  in  at  lecture 
bureau  once  more.  Learned  that  Mr.  Widde 
combe  had  not  yet  turned  up.  They,  however, 
would  try  to  get  him  on  the  wire  at  the  Biltmore 
for  me.  Yes,  he  was  there,  but  the  fourth  floor 
desk  of  the  hotel  said  he  had  just  gone  into  Mr. 
Chesterton's  room,  and  so  (as,  apparently, 
everyone  ought  to  know)  could  not  be  communi 
cated  with  just  now.  He  would  call  up  shortly. 
Lecture  people  suggested  that  I  go  round  to  the 
hotel.  If  Mr.  Widdecombe  called  in  the  mean 
time  they'd  tell  him  I  was  on  my  way  over. 

Thought  I  recognized  the  gentleman  stepping 
out  of  the  elevator  at  the  fourth  floor.  I  did  not 
know  whether  or  not  it  was  at  all  what  you  did 
to  lay  hold  of  an  Englishman  in  so  abrupt  a 
fashion,  but  concluded  this  would  have  to  be 
done.  Mr.  Widdecombe  was  all  courtesy.  The 

[59] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

point,  however,  was  that  "Mr.  Chesterton  had 
had  an  hour  of  it  this  morning.  Had  had  an  hour 
of  it."  This  afternoon  he  was  getting  off  some 
work  for  London.  Then  tomorrow,  of  course, 
would  be  his  lecture.  My  matter  did  seem  to  be 
urgent.  But  what  could  "we"  do?  Mr. 
Chesterton  was  a  "beautiful  man."  He  had  been 
so  hospitable  to  the  gentlemen  of  the  press.  But 
if  we  should  go  in  to  him  now  he  would  say, 
"Dear  me!  Dear  me!"  I  readily  saw,  of  course, 
that  this  would  be  an  awful  thing,  still  .  .  . 

Mr.  Widdecombe  was  somewhat  inclined  to 
think  that  we  "could  do"  this:  Suppose  I  should 
come  to  the  Times  Square  Theatre  the  next  after 
noon,  at  about  a  quarter  to  five,  call  for  him  at 
the  stage  entrance.  Yes,  he  thought  we  could 
arrange  it  that  way.  I  could  talk  to  Mr. 
Chesterton  in  the  taxi  on  the  way  back  to  the 
hotel.  Perhaps  detain  him  for  a  few  moments 
afterward.  Mr.  Widdecombe  smiled  very 
pleasantly  indeed  at  the  idea  of  so  happy  a  solu 
tion  of  our  difficulties.  And  I  myself  was  rather 
taken  by  the  notion  of  interviewing  Mr.  Chester 
ton  in  a  cab.  The  fancy  occurred  to  me  that  this 
was  perhaps  after  all  the  most  fitting  place  in 
[60] 


SEEING  MR.  CHESTERTON 

the    whole   world    in    which    to    interview    Mr. 
Chesterton. 

So  everything  seems  to  be  all  right. 

#######" 

New  complications!  (This  is  the  following 
day.)  In  the  morning  mail  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
Chesterton,  saying  so  sorry  not  to  have  answered 
my  letter  before,  but  it  had  been  almost  impossi 
ble  to  deal  with  the  correspondence  that  had 
reached  them  since  they  arrived  in  America. 
Her  husband  asked  her  to  say  he  would  very 
much  like  to  see  me.  And  could  I  call  at  the 
hotel  round  about  twelve  o'clock  on  Sunday 
morning?  No  difficulty  about  meeting  Mr. 
Chesterton  in  the  kindness  of  that.  But  Sunday 
might  be  quite  too  late  for  the  purpose  of  my 
article.  So  I'll  go  to  the  theatre  anyway,  and 
I'll  certainly  accept  all  Chesterton  invitations. 
******* 

A  colored  dignitary  in  a  uniform  sumptuously 
befrogged  with  gold  lace  who  commanded  the 
portal  directed  me  to  the  stage  entrance.  I 
passed  into  a  dark  and  apparently  deserted  pas 
sage  and  paused  to  consider  my  next  step.  Before 
me  was  a  tall,  brightly  lighted  aperture,  and 
coming  through  this  I  caught  the  sound,  gently 

[61] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

rising  and  falling,  of  a  rather  dulcet  voice.  A 
slight  pause  in  the  flow  of  individual  utterance, 
and  directly  following  upon  this  a  soft  wave  as 
of  the  intimate  mirth  of  an  audience  wafted  about 
what  was  evidently  the  auditorium  beyond.  Just 
then  a  figure  duskily  defined  itself  before  me  and 
addressed  me  in  a  gruff  whisper.  I  was  directed 
to  proceed  around  the  passage  extending  ahead, 
to  Room  Three.  I  should  have  passed  behind  a 
tall  screen  (I  recognized  later),  but  inadver 
tently  I  passed  before  it,  and  suddenly  found 
myself  the  target  of  thousands  upon  thousands 
of  eyes — and  the  unmistakable  back  of  Mr. 
Chesterton  looming  in  the  brilliance  directly 
before  me. 

Regaining  the  passage,  I  found  a  door  labelled 
A  3.  Receiving  no  response  to  my  knock,  I 
opened  it;  and  peered  into  a  lighted  cubby-hole 
about  one-third  the  size  of  a  very  small  hall  bed 
room.  The  only  object  of  any  conspicuousness 
presented  to  me  was  a  huge,  dark  garment  hang 
ing  from  a  hook  in  the  wall.  It  seemed  to  be — 
ah!  yes;  it  was  a  voluminous  overcoat  with  a 
queer  cape  attached.  So ;  I  was  in  the  right  shop 
all  right. 

I  thought  I  ought  to  look  around  and  try  to 
[62] 


SEEING  MR.  CHESTERTON 

find  somebody.  I  wandered  into  what  I  suppose 
are  the  "wings"  of  the  theatre.  Anyway,  I  had 
an  excellent  view,  from  one  side,  of  the  stage 
and  of  a  portion  of  one  gallery.  The  only  per 
son  quite  near  me  was  a  fireman,  who  paid  no 
attention  whatever  to  me,  but  continued  to  gaze 
out  steadily  at  Mr.  Chesterton,  with  an  expres 
sion  of  countenance  which  (as  well  as  I  could 
decipher  it)  registered  fascinated  incomprehen 
sion.  I  attempted  to  lean  against  what  I  sup 
posed  was  a  wall,  but  to  my  great  fright  the 
whole  structure  nearly  tumbled  over  as  I  barely 
touched  it.  Perceiving  a  chair  the  other  side  of 
the  fireman,  I  passed  before  him,  sat  down,  and 
gave  myself  over  to  contemplation  of  the  spec 
tacle. 

My  first  impression,  I  think,  was  that  Mr. 
Chesterton  was  speaking  in  so  conversational  a 
key  that  I  should  have  expected  to  hear  cries  of 
"Louder!"  coming  from  all  over  the  house.  But 
from  the  lighted  expressions  of  the  faces  far  away 
in  the  corner  of  the  gallery  visible  to  me  he  was 
apparently  being  followed  perfectly.  I  did  not 
then  know  that  at  his  first  public  appearance  in 
New  York  he  had  referred  to  his  lecturing  voice 
as  the  original  mouse  that  came  from  the  moun- 

[63] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

tain.  Nor  had  I  then  seen  Francis  Hackett's 
comment  upon  it  that:  "It  wasn't,  of  course,  a 
bellow.  Neither  was  it  a  squeak."  Mr.  Hackett 
adds  that  it  is  "the  ordinary  good  lecture-hall 
voice."  I  do  not  feel  that  this  quite  describes 
my  own  impression  of  it  the  other  afternoon. 
Rather,  perhaps,  I  should  put  the  matter  in  this 
way.  My  recollection  of  the  conversation  I  had 
with  him  in  1914  at  Beaconsfield  is  that  there  was 
a  much  more  ruddy  quality  to  his  voice  then  than 
the  other  day,  and  more,  much  more,  in  the  turn 
of  his  talk  a  racy  note  of  the  burly  world. 

Perhaps  he  feels  that  before  a  "representative" 
American  audience  one  should  be  altogether  what 
used  to  be  called  "genteel."  At  any  rate,  I  cer*- 
tainly  heard  the  other  day  the  voice  of  a  modest, 
very  friendly,  cultivated,  nimble-minded  gentle 
man,  speaking  with  the  nicety  of  precision  more 
frequently  observed  among  English  people  than 
among  Americans.  There  was  in  it  even  a  trace 
of  a  tone  as  though  it  were  most  at  home  within 
university  walls.  Though,  indeed,  I  am  glad  to 
say,  Mr.  Chesterton  did  not  abstain  from  erudite, 
amused,  and  amusing  allusions  to  the  society 
most  at  home  in  "pubs."  And  I  cannot  but  sus 
pect  that  perhaps  he  would  have  been  found  a 
[64] 


SEEING  MR.  CHESTERTON 

shade  more  amusing  even  than  he  was  if  .  .  . 
but,  no  matter. 

One  gentleman  who  has  written  a  piece  about 
his  impressions  of  Mr.  Chesterton's  lectures  here 
felt  that  his  audience  didn't  have  quite  as  much 
of  a  good  time  as  the  members  of  it  expected  to 
have.  I  heard  only  a  brief,  concluding  portion 
of  one  lecture.  The  portion  of  the  audience 
which  came  most  closely  before  my  observation 
were  those  seated  at  the  well  filled  press  table, 
which  stood  directly  between  the  speaker  and 
me.  These  naive  beings  gave  every  evidence  of 
getting,  to  speak  temperately,  their  money's 
worth. 

Though  Mr.  Chesterton  turned  the  pages  of 
notes  as  he  spoke,  he  could  not  be  said  to  have 
read  his  lecture.  On  the  other  hand,  it  was  clear 
that  he  did  not  appreciably  depart  from  a  care 
fully  prepared  disquisition. 

The  tumbled  mane  which  tops  him  off  seemed 
more  massive  even  than  before.  It  did  not, 
though,  appear  quite  so  tumbled.  I  think  there 
had  been  an  effort  (since  1914)  to  brush  it  quite 
nicely.  Certainly  it  is  ever  so  much  greyer.  I 
think  in  my  earlier  article  I  said  something  like 
this:  "Mr.  Chesterton  has  so  remarkably  red  a 

[65] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

face  that  his  smallish  moustache  seems  lightish 
in  color  against  it."  While  Mr.  Chesterton's 
face  today  could  not  be  described  as  pale,  it  looks 
more  like  a  face  and  less  like  a  glowing  full  moon. 
The  moustache  is  darker  against  it ;  less  bristling 
than  before,  more  straggly. 

A  couple  of  our  recent  commentators  upon 
Mr.  Chesterton  have  taken  a  fling  at  the  matter 
of  his  not  being  as  huge  as,  it  seems  to  them,  he 
has  been  made  out  to  be.  I  remember  that  when 
I  saw  him  before  I  was  even  startled  to  find  him 
more  monstrous  than  even  he  had  appeared  in 
his  pictures.  He  appears  to  take  part  a  good 
deal  in  pageants  in  England;  and  recent  photo 
graphs  of  him  as  Falstaff,  or  Tony  Weller,  or 
Mr.  Pickwick,  or  somebody  like  that,  have  not 
altogether  squared  up  with  my  recollection  of 
him.  True,  he  has  not  quite  the  bulk  he  had 
before;  but  it  is  a  captious  critic,  I  should  say, 
who  would  not  consider  him  sufficiently  elephan 
tine  for  all  ordinary  purposes. 

He  was  saying  (much  to  the  delight  of  the 
house)  when  I  became  one  of  the  audience,  that 
he  would  "not  regard  this  as  the  time  or  the  occa 
sion  for  him  to  comment  upon  the  lid  on  liquor." 
A  bit  later  in  the  course  of  his  answer  to  the 
[66] 


SEEING  MR.  CHESTERTON 

question  he  had  propounded,  "Shall  We  Abolish 
the  Inevitable,"  he  got  an  especially  good  hand 
when  he  remarked:  "People  nowadays  do  not 
like  statements  having  authority — but  they  will 
accept  any  statement  without  authority,"  He 
concluded  his  denunciation  of  the  idea  of  fatalism 
with  the  declaration :  "Whatever  man  is,  he  is  not 
in  one  sense  a  part  of  nature."  "He  has  commit 
ted  crimes,  Crimes,"  he  repeated — with  gusto  in 
the  use  of  the  word, — "and  performed  heroisms 
which  no  animal  ever  tried  to  do.  Let  us  hold 
ourselves  free  from  the  boundary  of  the  material 
order  of  things,  for  so  shall  we  have  a  chance  in 
the  future  to  do  things  far  too  historic  for 
prophecy." 

I  darted  back  toward  Room  Three,  ran  into 
Mr.  Widdecombe,  we  wheeled,  and  saw  the 
mountain  approaching.  Whereas  before,  this 
off-stage  place  had  been  deserted,  now  the  scene 
was  populous — with  the  figures  of  agitated 
young  women.  Mr.  Widdecombe,  however,  with 
much  valiance  secured  Mr.  Chesterton.  "Yes, 
yes,"  he  said,  and  (remarkable  remark!),  "I  had 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  in  England."  He 
glanced  about  rather  nervously  at  the  dancing 
figures  seeking  to  obtain  him,  and  led  the  way 

[67] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

for  me  into  the  dressing  room.    Mr.  Widdecombe 
pulled  the  door  to  from  without. 

I  am  far  from  being  as  large  as  Mr.  Chester 
ton,  but  the  two  of  us  closeted  in  that  compart 
ment  was  an  absurdity.  Mr.  Chesterton  eclipsed 
a  chair,  and  beamed  upon  me  with  an  expression 
of  Cheeryble-like  brightness.  Upon  his  arrival 
in  New  York  he  had  declared  to  the  press  that 
he  would  not  write  a  book  of  his  impressions  of 
the  United  States.  I  asked  him  if,  after  being 
here  a  week  or  so,  he  had  changed  his  mind  as  to 
this  determination.  "Not  definitely,"  he  said, 
"not  definitely.  But,  of  course,  one  could  never 
tell  what  one  might  do."  He  might  write  a  book 
about  us,  then?  Yes,  he  might.  Did  he  think  it 
at  all  likely  that  he  would  take  up  residence  over 
here?  A  very  joyous  smile:  "One's  own  country 
is  best,"  he  said.  Rumors  had  several  times  been 
afloat  that  he  had  entered  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church.  Would  he  say  whether  there  was  any 
likelihood  of  his  doing  this  ?  He  was  an  Anglican 
Catholic,  he  replied.  Not  a  Roman  Catholic — 
yet.  That  was  not  to  say  that  he  might  not  be — 
if  the  English  Church  should  become  more 
Protestant.  What  was  his  next  book  to  be? 
[68] 


SEEING  MR.  CHESTERTON 

Had  he  any  project  in  mind  of  going  to  Turkey, 
or  Mexico,  or  some  such  place?  No;  the  only 
books  he  was  working  on  at  present  were  a  new 
volume  of  short  stories  and  a  book  (smiling 
again  widely)  on  eugenics.  He  knew  Mr. 
Lucas,  of  course?  "Yes,  fine  fellow."  Did  he 
know  Frank  Swinnerton?  No.  What  was  .  .  . 
But  the  door  was  popped  open.  Several  persons 
were  waiting  for  him,  among  them  Mrs.  Chester 
ton.  I  helped  him  into  the  cape-coat.  Stood 
behind  the  door  so  that  when  it  was  opened  he 
could  get  out.  "You  know  Mr.  Holliday,"  he 
said  to  Mrs.  Chesterton.  "Thank  you,  so  much," 
he  said  to  me.  And  was  whisked  away. 

Sunday  at  the  hotel.  He  was  late  in  arriving. 
I  thought  it  would  be  pleasanter  to  wait  a  bit  out 
in  front.  Expected  he  would  drive  up  soon  in 
a  taxi.  Then  I  saw  him  coming  around  the 
corner,  walking,  rolling  slowly  from  side  to  side 
like  a  great  ship,  Mrs.  Chesterton  with  him — a 
little  lady  whose  stature  suggested  the  idea  of  a 
yacht  gracefully  cruising  alongside  the  huge 
craft.  I  wonder  if,  nowadays  when  most  writers 
seem  to  try  to  look  like  something  else,  Mr.  Ches- 

[69] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

lerton  knows  how  overwhelmingly  like  a  great 
literary  figure  he  looks. 

When  we  were  seated,  I  asked  if  he  had  any 
dope  on  his  "New  Jerusalem"  book.  He  began 
to  tell  me  how  surprised  he  had  been  to  find 
Jerusalem  as  it  is.  But  the  substance  of  this  you 
may  find  in  the  book.  He  expressed  sympathy 
with  the  idea  of  Zionism.  Remarked  that  he 
"might  become  a  Zionist  if  it  could  be  accom 
plished  in  Zion."  All  that  he  could  find  to  tell 
me  about  his  "New  Jerusalem"  was  that  it  had 
been  "written  on  the  spot."  Seemed  very  disin 
clined  to  talk  about  his  own  books.  Said  his 
feeling  in  general  about  each  one  of  them  was 
that  he  "hoped  something  would  happen  to  it 
before  anybody  saw  it." 

His  surprise  at  Jerusalem  suggested  to  me  the 
question,  Had  he  been  surprised  at  the  United 
States — what  he  had  seen  of  it?  But  he  dodged 
giving  any  "view"  of  us.  His  only  comment  was 
on  the  "multitudinous  wooden  houses." 

Had  he  met  many  American  authors?  The 
one  most  recently  met,  a  day  or  so  ago  in  North 
ampton,  though  he  had  met  him  before  in  Eng 
land,  was  a  gentleman  he  liked  very  much.  He 
was  so  thin  Mr.  Chesterton  thought  the  two  of 
[70] 


SEEING  MR.  CHESTERTON 

them  "should  go  around  together."    His  name? 
Gerald  Stanley  Lee. 

But  there  is  not  a  particle  more  of  time  that 
I  can  spend  on  this  article. 


[71] 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHEN  IS  A  GREAT  CITY  A  SMALL  VILLAGE? 

HOW  many  times  you  have  noticed  it !  Reg 
ular  phenomenon.  Suddenly,  within  a 
few  hours,  the  whole  nature  of  the  great  city  is 
changed — your  city  and  mine,  New  York  or 
Chicago,  or  Boston  or  Buffalo  or  Philadelphia. 

Though  nobody  seems  to  say  much  about  it 
afterward.  Just  sort  of  take  the  thing  for 
granted. 

It  is  just  like  Armistice  Night,  every  once  in 
awhile.  Total  strangers  suddenly  begin  to  call 
each  other  "Neighbor."  Voices  everywhere 
become  jollier.  Numerous  passersby  begin  to 
whistle  and  sing.  People  go  with  a  skip  and  a 
jump.  Catcalls  are  heard.  Groups  may  be  seen 
all  around  going  arm  in  arm,  and  here  and  there 
with  arms  about  necks.  Anybody  speaks  to  you 
merrily.  Merrily  you  speak  to  anybody.  All 
eyes  shine.  Roses  are  in  every  cheek.  Hurry  is 
abandoned.  Small  boys  run  wild.  Nobody  now 
objects  to  their  stealing  a  ride.  It  is  fun  to  see 
[72] 


A  SMALL  VILLAGE 

their  swinging  legs  dangling  over  the  tail  of 
every  wagon.  Sour  human  nature  is  purged. 
Good  humor  reigns.  Hurrah! 

I  mean  on  the  night  of  a  big  snow. 

This  year  it  looked  for  long  as  though  we  were 
going  to  be  done  out  of  this  truly  Dickensean 
festival.  Seemed  like  we  were  going  to  be  like 
those  unfortunate  people  in  Southern  Califor 
nia,  who  never  have  any  winter  to  cheer  them  up. 
How  tired  they  must  get  of  their  wives  and 
neighbors,  with  it  bland  summer  all  the  time. 
Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  there  is  such  a  promis 
cuous  domestic  life  out  there. 

Young  Will  Shakespeare  had  the  dope.  He 
piped  the  weather  for  jollity  and  pep.  "When 
blood  is  nipp'd" — "a  merry  note!" 

You  remember  how  it  was  this  time:  Spring 
all  winter — and  spring  fever,  too,  a  good  many 
of  us  had  all  the  while.  (My  doctor  said  it  was 
"malaria"  with  me.)  We  were  congratulating 
ourselves  that  we  were  going  to  "get  by"  without 
any  "blizzards"  at  all  this  year.  We  became 
"softy."  We  guarded  ourselves  with  our  um 
brellas  against  the  shower.  We  became  prudent. 
And  what  is  it  Stevenson  says  of  that?  "So  soon 
as  prudence  has  begun  to  grow  up  in  the  brain, 

[73] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

like  a  dismal  fungus,  it  finds  its  first  expression 
in  a  paralysis  of  generous  acts.  The  victim 
begins  to  shrink  spiritually;  he  develops  a  fancy 
for  parlors  with  a  regulated  temperature,  and 
takes  his  morality  on  the  principle  of  thin  shoes 
and  tepid  milk." 

Then  one  night  there  came  a  tinkle  in  the 
temperature  as  of  sleigh  bells.  And  the  town, 
;the  world  sank  into  a  soft  blanket  of  white. 
Were  you  out  then?  Ah!  you  should  have  been. 
You  were  not,  I  hope,  in  a  parlor  with  a  regu 
lated  temperature. 

Well,  anyhow,  everybody  else  was  out.  The 
cross  streets  of  the  big  city  had  "all  to  oncet" 
taken  on  the  air  of  a  small  town  "sociable." 
Shadowy  multitudes  seemed  to  sprout  up  out 
of  the  ground.  The  sidewalks,  especially  those 
usually  so  deserted  at  this  hour,  now  ahum  with 
dark  busy  bowing  figures,  rang  and  clanged 
gayly  with  the  sound  of  scoop  and  shovel.  In 
the  democratic,  jovial,  village-like  spirit  of  the 
occasion,  many  of  the  workers  (those  more  staid 
and  portly  ones)  removed  their  coats.  Every 
here  and  there  an  areaway  held,  in  a  holiday 
effect,  a  cluster  of  bare-headed  maid-servants — 
the  "gallery"  of  the  shovellers,  whose  presence 
[74] 


A  SMALL  VILLAGE 

tended  to  make  of  the  task  of  clearing  the  side 
walk  a  night-hour  lark. 

Voices  in  the  street,  as  you  know,  and  laughter 
there,  is  never  so  musical  as  above  snow- 
stilled  pavements.  Then,  too,  cheery  echoes  are 
abroad  among  the  recesses  between  the  houses, 
in  the  courts  and  down  the  ways  where  packages 
are  delivered.  The  shovellers  good-naturedly 
banter  one  another  and  pass  a  cordial  jest  with 
those  who  travel  by.  And  every  here  and  there 
the  rich  contralto  of  negro  mirth  is  heard. 

I  do  not  know  that  the  city's  parks  are  not  a 
finer  spectacle  under  snow  than  in  the  summer — 
their  dark  glistening  branches  laden  a  la  Christ 
mas  card,  and,  after  dark,  their  festocns  of  lamps 
more  twinkling  and  more  yellow  than  at  any 
other  time. 

Along  Broadway  what  a  whirl!  The  street 
like  an  arena,  hordes  of  gladiators  in  doughty 
combat  with  the  onslaught  of  the  storm,  snow- 
carts  Banging  and  backing  about  (horses  seem 
to  stomp  and  snort  and  rear  more  in  a  snow 
storm  than  at  any  other  time),  new  ridiculously 
miniature  "caterpillar  tractors"  performing  like 
toy  tanks  at  war,  traffic  in  a  hilarious  tangle, 
street  cars  crawling  along  looking  more  than 

[75] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

ever  before  like  prodigious  cat-eyed  bugs.  Here 
with  a  terrific  buzz  comes  one  all  dark  furiously 
thrashing  the  snow  from  side  to  side  by  means  of 
revolving  brooms  beneath.  The  crowds  an  ani 
mated  silhouette  against  the  whitened  air.  One 
wants  to  hop  and  shout  one  feels  so  much  alive. 
Lots  of  funny  things  happen.  A  taxicab  there 
has  got  stuck  in  a  drift.  It  whirs  in  a  passion. 
Wallows  forward.  Runs  its  nose  up  a  little 
hillock  of  hard  crusted  snow.  Stops.  Makes  a 
fine  hubbub.  Slides  back,  stilled,  exhausted. 
Tries  again.  Same  thing  repeated.  A  pounding 
is  heard  on  the  inside  of  the  door.  Chauffeur 
reaches  back  his  hand  to  turn  handle  of  door. 
Something  is  wrong.  He  climbs  down.  Pulls  at 
door.  Nothing  doing.  Door  has  apparently 
been  sprung  somehow.  Taxi  is  now  observed 
to  be  a  bit  listed  to  one  side.  Pounding,  louder 
than  before,  again  heard  from  inside.  Conductor 
from  nearby  car  comes  to  side  of  chauffeur.  Also 
policeman.  All  lay  hold  of  each  other  and  pull 
with  united  effort  at  taxi  door.  Door  flies  open. 
Closely  knit  group  of  chauffeur,  conductor  and 
policeman  nearly  tumbles  backward  into  snow. 
From  cab  door  descends  tall,  elegant  figure  in 
evening  clothes  and  top  hat.  Followed  by  even 
[76] 


A  SMALL  VILLAGE 

more  elegant  figure  of  slender  lady  in  opera 
cloak.  For  some  reason  she  appears  to  be  very 
angry,  and  shakes  her  fist  at  her  three  humble 
liberators.  The  couple  seek  some  path,  from  the 
trampled  oasis  where  they  stand,  through  the 
drifts  to  the  sidewalk.  There  is  none.  Her 
dazzling  skirt  she  has  caught  high  from  the  mess 
about  her  feet.  Perhaps  a  yard  of  pale  yellow 
silken  hose  is  revealed  above  her  satin  pumps. 
Finally  in  desperation  the  two  plunge  forward, 
taking  gigantic  steps,  sinking  knee-deep  at  every 
onward  move,  tottering,  swaying  and  at  length 
fairly  scrambling  toward  the  haven  of  the  curb. 
The  dozens  along  the  sidewalk  who  have  been 
held  spellbound  by  what  they  have  found  to  be 
so  delicious  a  comedy  turn  to  one  another  with 
delighted  smiles — and  move  along  again  on  their 
way. 

It  is  things  like  this  always  happening  all  about 
which  make  snow-storm  nights  in  the  city  such  a 
hippodrome  affair,  and  all  the  world  akin. 

Over  on  the  Avenue  busses  are  busily  pushing 
plows  hitched  on  before.  There  one  has  got 
stalled  in  a  drift.  It  whirs  and  buzzes  and  backs 
and  starts  and  whirs  and  buzzes  over  and  over 
again.  No  use,  it  seems.  Still,  draped  along  the 

[77] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

curb,  the  spectators  stand,  unmindful  of  the  gale, 
as  absorbed  as  if  at  a  Yale-Princeton  game, 
Buzzzzzzzzz — Whirr rrrrrrrrr — and  away.  She's 
off!  A  feeble  cheer  goes  up.  And  everybody 
starts  onward  again  in  better  humor  with  himself 
for  having  seen  so  entertaining  a  show. 

It  snowed  the  night  through. 

In  the  morning  banks  of  snow  breast-high 
through  the  side  streets.  Through  a  narrow 
aisle  down  the  middle  of  the  roadway  trucks 
cars  and  wagons  slowly  go  in  single  file.  Moving 
thus  all  in  a  single  line  they  have  something  the 
effect  of  a  circus  parade — elephants  and  lion 
cages  and  so  on. 

And  lions  remind  me.  It  is  always  well  to  look 
at  public  statues  and  outdoor  pieces  of  sculpture 
the  morning  after  a  heavy  snow.  You  are  likely 
to  find  them  very  comical  apparitions.  The  cele 
brated  literary  lions  before  the  New  York  Public 
Library,  for  instance,  wore  throughout  the  day 
after  the  first  big  snow  of  this  winter  ridiculous 
tall  caps  pulled  down  very  rakishly  over  their 
eyes. 

Streaming  from  the  direction  of  the  railroad 
station  were  coming  the  swarms  of  our  commuter 
friends,  the  legs  of  many  of  them  hoisting  along 
[78] 


A  SMALL  VILLAGE 

those  prodigious  "arctics"  which  are  all  the  vogue 
nowadays.  Isn't  it  curious?  There  was  a  time 
when  if  you  were  obliged  to  wear  glasses  you  got 
them  as  nearly  invisible  as  possible.  If  you  were 
a  man  you  felt  there  was  something  shameful 
about  having  "weak"  eyes.  If  a  woman,  you 
"just  knew"  that  glasses  made  you  look  "horrid." 
And  when  you  wore  overshoes  you  got  them  as 
inconspicuous  as  possible.  Now  you  affect  shell 
spectacles  that  can  be  seen  a  block  away,  and 
having  huge  lenses.  Now  there  is  nothing 
smarter,  apparently,  than  for  a  young  woman 
with  a  trim  foot  to  come  into  town  swaddled  in 
floppers  which  fit  her  slim  ankles  like  a  bucket. 
Men  are  still  shovelling  and  scraping  away  at 
the  streets,  a  motley  army.  What  is  it  so  many 
persons  are  pausing  to  smile  at,  others  hurrying 
on  but  with  grinning  faces  turned  back?  It  is 
at  a  gentleman  shoveller.  Here  recruited  some 
how  among  this  gang  of  husky  laborers  is  a  slim 
eccentric  figure  in  a — yes,  a  frock  coat,  a  derby 
hat,  kid  gloves,  and  very  tight  trousers  ...  a 
quaint  picture  of  the  shabby  genteel.  Walking 
very  briskly  back  and  forth,  very  upright  in  car 
riage,  the  small  of  his  back  curved  inward,  he 
pushes  his  scraper  before  him  holding  it  by  the 

[79] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

very  tip  of  the  long  handle — and  as  well  as  can 
be  observed  doesn't  scrape  anything  at  all.  His 
fellow  workers  regard  him  with  surly  disgust 
and  roughly  bump  into  him  at  every  opportunity. 
What  story  is  there,  in  that  absurd,  pathetic 
scene,  what  O.  Henry  tale  of  mischance  in  a 
great  city  ? 

A  wagon  on  a  side  street  has  got  its  wheels 
ground  into  the  snow  bank  at  the  side  of  the  nar 
row  cleared  way.  Such  accidents  are  all  about, 
and  everywhere  men  may  be  seen  leaving  their 
own  affairs  to  give  a  helping  hand  to  a  fellow 
being  in  sore  straits.  The  visitation  of  a  great 
snow  storm  strikingly  unites  the  bonds  of  the 
brotherhood  of  man. 

Stalled  for  interminable  periods  in  suburban 
trains  and  in  traffic  jams  hurried  men  give  them 
selves  up  cheerfully  to  the  philosophic  virtue  of 
patience. 

Vagabonds  sent  on  errands  two  miles  away 
return  after  three  hours  with  tales  of  the  awful 
slowness  of  trolley  cars.  And  on  days  of  great 
snow  storms  meet  with  Christian  forgiveness. 


[80] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    UNUSUALNESS    OF    PARISIAN    PHILADELPHIA 

1  DISCOVERED  the  other  day  that  Phila 
delphia  is  a  very  great  deal  nearer  to  Paris 
than  New  York  is. 

How  do  I  figure  out  that? 

Plain  enough.  It's  because  New  York  women, 
buds  and  matrons,  thinking  they  are  got  up  (or 
as  the  English  say,  "turned  out")  smart  as  any 
thing,  are  parading  around  in  fashions  today 
altogether  passee. 

You  know  the  New  York  scene.  And  how 
for  some  considerable  time  now  its  most — well, 
most  apparent  feature  has  been  a — er,  a  hosiery 
display  .  .  .  unparalleled  off  the  gay  stage  of 
musical  comedy.  Very,  so  to  speak,  exhilarating 
that  once  was — the  glistening  spectacle  of,  mov 
ing  all  about,  those  symmetrically  tapering  lines 
of  pink  and  rose  and  orange  and  pearl  and  taupe 
and  heather  tan  and  heather  green  and  purple 
wool  and  sheen  of  black  and  gloss  of  mottled 
snake  and — and  all  that. 

[81] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

But,  I  am  afraid,  the  eye  over-long  accustomed 
to  the  great  Metropolitan  movie  thriller  of  the 
fashionable  streets  had  become  somewhat  dulled. 

The  Parisienne  knew  about  the  peculiar  char 
acter  of  the  eye,  and  that  it  ceases  to  see  with 
any  emotional  response  at  all  that  which  remains 
within  its  range  of  vision  for  any  extended  length 
of  time.  So  she  (roguish  witch!)  alertly  changed 
the  picture. 

I  picked  up  by  chance,  during  my  two-hour 
run  on  the  train,  a  copy  of  one  of  our  most  dash 
ing  fashion  journals.  It  was  the  "Forecast  of 
Spring  Fashions"  number.  I  opened  it,  at  ran 
dom,  at  the  headline:  "The  Short  Skirt  Has  Had 
Its  Day  in  Paris."  Below  was  a  jolly  photo 
graph  (of  a  stunning  lady  at  the  latest  races  at 
Auteuil)  illustrating  "the  new  skirt  length." 
Visible  beneath  the  hem — a  trim  foot,  and  a  bit 
of  tidy  ankle. 

Who  was  the  fellow  (with  a  gifted  eye  for  the 
lasses)  who  spoke  with  such  delight  of  the  tiny 
feet  that  "like  little  mice  run  in  and  out"?  And 
there  was  that  other  poet  (what  was  his  name? 
I  declare!  my  literature  is  getting  awful  rusty), 
who  sang  with  such  relish  the  charm  of  feminine 
[82] 


PARISIAN  PHILADELPHIA 

drapery  "concealing  yet  revealing."     Anyhow, 
you  know  what  I'm  getting  at. 

I  closed  the  magazine  and  forgot  about  the 
matter — until  shortly  after  I  had  come  out  of 
the  Broad  Street  Station. 

The  modish  scene  I  apprehended  was,  to  an 
eye  accustomed  steadily  for  some  time  to  the 
natty  abbreviations  of  Fifth  Avenue,  a  refresh 
ing,  a  charming  spectacle.  I  seemed  suddenly 
to  have  left  my  "orchestra  seat."  And  to  have 
returned  again  to  a  view  of,  so  to  put  it,  ladies  in 
private  life. 

Though,  indeed,  occasionally  in  the  distance  I 
caught  a  flashing  glimpse  of,  according  to  Paris 
decree,  the  obsolete  skirt  length. 

Come  to  think  of  it,  isn't  this  so,  too :  that  there 
are  in  Philadelphia  more  rose-cheeked  damsels 
of  hearty  figure  and  athletic-heel  swing  than  you 
usually  come  across  in  other  cities? 

At  any  rate,  there  are  quite  a  number  of  very 
unusual  things  about  "Phila,"  as  I  believe  inti 
mate  friends  of  the  city  affectionately  call  the 
place.  Things  which  it  may  be  you  have  not 
noticed  lately — perhaps  because  you  haven't  been 
there  recently,  or  maybe  because  you  live  there., 
and  so  see  them  every  day. 

[83] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

One  of  the  unusual  things  about  Philadelphia 
Is  that  so  many  ladies  and  "gem'men"  who  do 
light  housekeeping  on  and  around  Manhattan 
Island  (in  other  words  "New  Yorkers")  appar 
ently  find  it  easier  frequently  to  get  to  Chicago, 
or  Palm  Beach,  or  London,  or  Santa  Barbara 
than  to  journey  to  Philadelphia.  I  suppose  the 
reason  for  this  state  of  mind  is  the  same  as  the 
cause  of  my  sometimes  feeling  that  it  would  be 
about  as  simple  for  me  to  undertake  a  trip  from 
the  Grand  Central  to  Buffalo  as  to  get  from 
Times  Square  down  to  Fulton  Street  for  a  lunch 
eon  appointment.  A  place  which  is  only  half 
an  hour,  or  two  hours  away,  is  a  place,  you  think, 
that  you  can  run  down  to  any  time.  And — well, 
just  at  the  moment  with  everything  so  pressing 
and  all  that.  To  become  keyed  up  about  taking 
a  "real"  trip  is  another  matter. 

And  when  I  myself  do  get  there  I  always  feel 
that  it  is  an  unusual  thing  that  I  have  allowed  so 
long  a  time  to  lapse  since  I  came  before.  Because 
it  is  so  unusually  pleasant  and  restful  a  ride  that 
it  makes  me  sore  to  think  what  an  unusually 
deuce  of  a  thing  I  am  put  to  every  night  going 
home  in  the  rush  hour  to  Dyckman  Street  on 
the  subway. 
[84] 


PARISIAN  PHILADELPHIA 

It  is  an  unusual  thing  (or,  at  least,  so  it  seems 
to  me)  that  in  Philadelphia  cards  in  windows 
advertising  rooms  to  let  should  be  (as  they  are) 
labelled  "Vacancies." 

It  is  an  unusual  thing  that  here  so  many  under 
takers'  shops  should  be  conducted  in  what  appear 
to  be  private  residences.  It  is  an  unusual  thing 
that  there  should  be  so  many  ways  of  paying 
your  fare  on  the  street  cars — in  some  you  pay 
when  you  get  on,  in  others  when  you  get  off. 
It  is  an  unusual  thing  that  in  Philadelphia  there 
are  more  different  kinds  of  street  lamps  than 
(I  suspect)  there  are  in  any  other  city  in  the 
world.  There  are  powerful  arc  lamps,  high  on 
tall  poles,  cold  white  in  their  light.  There  are 
lower  down,  particularly  pleasant  in  the  twinkle 
of  their  numbers  in  Washington  Square,  gas 
lamps  glowing  a  mellow  yellow  through  their 
mantles.  Various  other  kinds  of  lamps,  too. 
But  the  ones  I  like  best  are  those  squat  fellows 
throughout  Independence  Square.  Octagonal 
iron-bound  boxes  of  glass,  small  at  the  base,  wide 
at  the  top,  with  a  kind  of  ecclesiastical  derby  hat 
of  iron  as  a  lid.  They  somehow  suggest  to  me 
the  lamps  which  I  fancy  before  Will  Shakes 
peare's  Globe  Theatre. 

[85] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

Here  golden  Diana  with  her  bow  does  not  poise 
high  on  her  slender  Spanish  tower.  But  from 
far  above  the  "Public  Buildings"  Brother  Penn 
looks  down  on  more  banks,  United  States  Mints, 
trust  companies,  firms  dealing  in  securities,  places 
handling  investments,  and  such-like  business  con 
cerns  than  (one  has  a  feeling)  can  be  found  in 
any  other  city  in  Christendom.  There  are  too, 
I  should  guess,  in  Philadelphia  about  as  many 
different  styles  and  periods  of  architecture  as 
in  any  other  municipality  between  the  two  great 
seas:  Georgian,  Colonial,  bay-window,  London 
brick  row,  ramshackle  frame,  modern  mansion, 
skyscraper,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  And  certainly  I  don't 
know  where  one  could  go  to  count  more  different 
kinds  of  porches.  Nor  where  one  could  find  so 
many  such  pleasant  oddities  of  today  as  hitching- 
blocks,  doorway  foot-scrapers,  and  those  old 
friends  of  our  childhood  the  front  yard  stone 
storks. 

And  where,  Oh,  where!  (not  even  in  London) 
can  one  find  so  many  alleys  to  the  square  inch? 
Many  of  them,  lanes  of  but  a  few  blocks  in  length, 
highly  respectable,  even  aristocratic,  quarters  of 
the  town.  Such  as  Camac  Street,  tucked  away 
between  Thirteenth  and  Twelfth  Streets,  one 
[86] 


PARISIAN  PHILADELPHIA 

block  of  it  either  side  of  Locust,  and  the  home  or 
haunt  of  those  of  artistic  persuasion.  Here  the 
famous  Franklin  Inn  Club,  the  charming  Poor 
Richard  Club,  and  divers  other  clubs  of  kindred 
spirit.  Unusual  this  quaint  street  of  art  in  this : 
in  fixing  it  up  for  its  present  purpose  its  quaint- 
ness  and  its  "artiness"  have  not  been  overdone. 
Far,  far  finer  in  effect  than  New  York's  over 
eccentric  alley  of  painters,  Washington  Mews,  its 
original  loveliness  has  simply  been  restored.  It 
is  as  jolly  to  look  upon  as  London's  artist  nook, 
Cheyne  Row.  Perhaps  even  jollier. 

Now  another  unusual  thing  about  Philadelphia 
is  that  Philadelphians  standing  within  three 
blocks  of  the  place  can't  tell  you  where  South 
Carlisle  Street  is.  Professional  Philadelphians, 
such  as  policemen,  firemen,  postmen,  street  car 
men,  can't  do  it.  In  the  attempt  they  contradict 
each  other,  and  quarrel  among  themselves.  For 
the  benefit  of  both  Philadelphians  and  visitors 
to  the  city  I  will  set  down  here  exactly  the  loca 
tion  of  South  Carlisle  Street.  West  of  Broad, 
south  of  Pine,  it  runs  one  block  from  Pine  to 
Lombard  Street.  After  a  jump,  where  there 
isn't  any  of  it,  north  of  Market  Street  there  is 
more  of  it. 

[87] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

But  what  the  dickens  is  South  Carlisle  Street, 
and  why  should  anybody  care  where  it  is  ?  Well, 
though  it  isn't  in  the  books  on  Historic  Shrines 
of  America  it  is  a  street  you  "hadn't  ought  to" 
miss.  It's  about  twelve  feet  (or  something  like 
that)  from  wall  to  wall.  The  doorways  seem 
to  be  about  three  feet  wide.  There,  in  South  Car 
lisle  Street,  Philadelphia's  mahogany  doors,  fan 
lights  above,  white  pillars  before,  marble  steps 
below,  her  immaculate  red  brick,  her  freshly 
painted  wooden  shutters,  her  gleaming  brass 
knockers  are  in  their  most  exquisite  perfection. 

A  wealthy  and  cultivated  gentleman  or  two 
"took  up"  the  street  a  year  or  so  ago,  decided 
to  make  their  homes  there,  and  it  has  become 
quite  "class."  Same  idea,  more  or  less,  that  Mrs. 
W.  K.  Vanderbilt  has  concerning  the  "exodus" 
of  her  set  from  Fifth  Avenue  to  unheard-of  Sut- 
ton  Place  over  among  the  tall  yellow  chimneys 
by  New  York's  East  River. 

Considering  the  great  wealth  in  Philadelphia 
and  its  environs,  particularly  those  patrician  en 
virons  lying  toward  Harrisburg,  it  is,  I  think, 
unusual  that  you  never  see  on  the  streets  there  a 
Pekingese  or  a  Pomeranian  attended  by  a  person 
age  in  livery. 
[88] 


PARISIAN  PHILADELPHIA 

Unusual,  too,  that  in  a  city  of  the  first  class 
along  the  eastern   seaboard   so   few   canes  are 


"worn." 


And,  by  the  way,  that's  an  unusual  railroad 
service  from  Philadelphia  to  New  York.  Con 
ductor  calls  out:  "Train  for  Newark  and  New 
York.  Newark  first  stop."  Train  slides  a  few 
feet — halts  at  West  Philadelphia.  Spins  along 
a  bit  again,  and  pulls  up  at  North  Philadelphia. 
Stops  later  along  the  way  at  Trenton,  Newark, 
and  Manhattan  Junction.  I  really  do  not  see, 
putting  a  wreck  out  of  the  calculation,  where 
else  it  could  stop. 

I  took  from  a  boy  in  the  Pennsylvania  station 
a  copy  of  one  of  New  York's  most  popular  eve 
ning  papers.  It  came  apart  in  the  middle. 
Straightening  it  out,  I  caught  a  headline  on  the 
"Talks  to  Women"  page.  It  read  "Short  Skirts 
Remain."  Below  a  cut  of  a  beaming  lass  attired, 
the  caption  said,  in  "frock  of  navy  blue  ruffled 
taffeta  with  short  sleeves  and  'shorter'  skirt." 

When  I  came  out  onto  the  street  the  tempera 
ture  (in  skirts)  seemed  to  have  risen  since  my 
departure  a  couple  of  days  before. 


[89] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

OUR  LAST  SOCIAL  ENGAGEMENT  AS  A  FINE  ART 

HAVE  just  witnessed  a  revelation.  At  least, 
-•*  it  was  a  revelation  to  me.  I'm  keen  on  tell 
ing  you  all  about  it. 

One  of  my  earlier  articles  in  this  series  had  to 
do  with  the  establishment  here  and  there  in  a 
great  city  of  those  gentlemen  engaged  in  the  es 
timable  business  of  packing  you  up  for  keeps — 
that  is  the  "parlors"  of  various  sorts  of  "under 
takers."  I  had  been  much  struck  by  the  vast 
number  of  cozy  little  places  catering,  so  to  say, 
to  the  poor  and  humble  who  have  forever  (as 
Stevenson  puts  it)  "parted  company  with  their 
aches  and  ecstasies."  And  I  had  wondered  at 
how  very  few  places  there  were  in  evidence  on 
the  streets  to  take  care  of  the  "remains"  of,  in 
a  manner  of  speaking,  the  first-cabin  passengers 
in  life,  those  who  have  travelled  through  their 
days  in  a  fashion  de  luxe.  The  establishments  of 
this  type  which  now  and  then  I  did  see  were  very 
palatial  indeed — and  didn't  look  at  all  as  though 
[90] 


OUR  LAST  SOCIAL  ENGAGEMENT 

they  would  countenance  the  corpse  of  just  an 
ordinary  person  such  as  you  and  me. 

Also,  all  the  undertaking  establishments  vis 
ible  to  me  in  my  goings  and  comings  about  town 
were  quite  obviously  undertaking  establishments. 
They  displayed  within  and  without  the  air,  the 
accoutrements,  the  paraphernalia  traditionally 
associated  with  one's  last  social  engagement  on 
earth,  his  funeral.  They  varied  only  in  this :  some 
were  rich  and  haughty  in  general  effect,  others 
simple  and  perhaps  dingy  in  appearance.  But 
each  and  all  of  them  looked  as  much  like  an  un 
dertaking  shop  as  a  barber  shop  looks  like  a  bar 
ber  shop.  You  could  not  possibly  have  mistaken 
any  one  of  them  for  a  Turkish  bath  establish 
ment,  or  a  Carnegie  library,  or  an  office  for  steam 
ship  tickets. 

As  I  say,  I  wrote  that  article  telling  all  this 
and  that  about  what  anybody  may  see  any  day 
as  he  goes  about  on  his  rounds  through  the  thick 
of  the  city.  But  when  the  article  appeared — 
originally — it  soon  developed  that  I  was  not 
abreast  of  undertaking  matters  at  all.  I  had  not 
in  the  least  kept  track  of  the  remarkable  advances 
which  have  to  date  been  made  in  the  art  of  being 
buried — and  a  very  fine  art,  in  the  advanced 

[91] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

phases  of  the  affair,  it  certainly  has  become.  I 
did  not  even  know  the  present-day,  the  correct, 
name  for  what  I,  in  so  old-fashioned  a  condition 
of  mind,  called  an  "undertaker's."  No. 

That  word,  "undertaker,"  has  long,  long  ago 
been  discarded  by  the  elite  of  the  profession. 
What  a  queer  word  as  a  business  title  it  was, 
anyway!  How  did  it  originally  ever  come  to 
be  used  in  its  mortuary  relation?  No  one  in  the 
business  that  I  have  asked  has  been  able  to  tell 
me.  And  why  in  the  dim  past  when  names 
were  being  given  to  trades  did  not  this  word, 
undertaker,  seem  to  be  equally  descriptive  of  the 
career  of  physician  or  attorney?  Indeed,  does 
not  he  that  sets  himself  the  highly  hazardous  task 
of  saving  a  living  fellow  being  from  disease  or 
the  gallows  undertake  to  do  more  than  he  who 
merely  performs  the  quiet  office  of  laying  us 
away? 

And  then,  oddly  enough  for  its  tragic  associa 
tions,  the  word  acquired  in  our  minds  something 
of  a  ludicrous  turn.  It  was  reminiscent  of  Dick 
ens,  of  hired  professional  "mourners,"  and  that 
sort  of  thing.  At  mention  of  the  word,  a  picture 
popped  into  our  mind  of  a  grotesquely  angular 
being,  of  sallow,  elongated  features  and  lugu- 
[92] 


OUR  LAST  SOCIAL  ENGAGEMENT 

brious  manner,  garbed  in  a  rusty  frock  coat  and 
"stove  pipe"  hat,  who  put  together  before  him  the 
tips  of  black-gloved  fingers  and  spoke  with  a 
hollow  sound.  We  would  say  to  our  friends 
when  they  were  feeling  blue:  "What's  the  mat 
ter  with  you?  You  act  like  an  undertaker." 

Well,  as  doubtless  you  have  noticed,  the  term 
"funeral  director"  more  or  less  recently  pretty 
well  superseded  the  word  undertaker  among  pro 
gressive  concerns.  It  is  a  phrase  much  more  in 
the  modern  spirit,  like  "domestic  science"  for 
(what  used  to  be)  "household  work,"  "modiste" 
for  "dressmaker,"  "maid"  for  "hired-girl," 
"psychic"  for  "fortune  teller,"  "publicity  engi 
neer"  for  "press  agent,"  and  so  on.  And  it  has 
a  good,  business-like,  efficient  sound. 

Still  (I  discovered)  to  be  buried  by  a  funeral 
director  is  not  the  very  latest,  the  most  fashion 
able  thing.  The  really  smart  way  nowadays  of 
bidding  good-bye  to  the  world  is  to  go  to  the 
establishment  of  a  "mortician." 

Yes;  that's  what  the  gentleman  said  in  his  very 

:  cordial  letter:  would  I  care  to  look  over  a  "real 

mortician's  establishment  in  New  York  City?" 

I  replied  that  nothing  could  give  me  greater 

[93] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

pleasure.  So  at  the  time  appointed  a  couple  of 
days  later  his  car  came  round  for  me. 

When  I  told  people  of  the  visit  I  was  about  to 
make,  they  all  laughed,  very  heartily.  Now  that 
brings  to  one's  attention  a  curious  thing:  why 
should  they  laugh?  Honestly,  between  you  and 
me,  think  hard  and  tell  me  what  really  there  is 
funny  about  going  to  see  a  burial  establishment  ? 

Paradoxical  indeed  is  the  attitude  of  mind  of 
practically  everyone  toward  this  subject  of  being 
ushered  out  of  life.  Sundry  totally  contradic 
tory  emotions  are  aroused  in  the  very  same  per 
son  by  slightly  different  aspects  of  the  same  sub 
ject.  If  you  remark  that  you  are  going  to  spend 
the  afternoon  at  the  undertaker's  that  is  awfully 
amusing.  At  the  same  time,  is  not  nearly  every 
one  down  in  his  heart  a  bit  scared  of  undertakers' 
shops?  Uncomfortable,  gruesome  places,  would 
not  most  of  us  feel,  to  have  next  door? 

At  any  rate,  as  we  glided  along  I  was  told  by 
the  gentleman  who  had  come  to  fetch  me  that 
the  feeling  was  very  general  that  the  presence 
of  a  funeral  director's  establishment  depreciated 
the  value  of  property  in  the  immediate  neighbor 
hood.  Though,  he  asserted,  this  popular  idea 
frequently  had  not  at  all  been  borne  out  in  fact. 
[94] 


OUR  LAST  SOCIAL  ENGAGEMENT 

It  developed  (from  his  lively  conversation) 
that  nothing  so  much  annoys  a  funeral  director, 
or  a  mortician,  as  for  a  visitor  to  pull  old  gags 
which  he  thinks  are  smart — such,  for  instance, 
as  the  remark:  "I  see  your  business  is  pretty 
dead."  I  gathered  that  this  jocular  pleasantry 
was  the  stock  joke  of  all  near- wits  who  visited 
undertakers — I  mean  morticians. 

No ;  there  is  another  thing  which  annoys  these 
gentlemen  (morticians)  even  more  than  such 
punk  puns  as  that.  They  deeply  resent,  I  dis 
covered,  any  disrespectful  allusion  to  their 
silent  clients,  such  as  calling  them  "stiffs,"  or 
something  like  that.  How  would  you,  they  ask, 
like  to  have  someone  of  yours — someone  who 
but  yesterday  returned  your  heart's  clasp,  now 
dumb  and  cold — made  game  of  by  such  ribaldry  ? 
Certainly,  I  cannot  say  that  I  should  like  it. 

Another  paradoxical  contradiction!  Tell  me 
(if  you  can)  what  strange  spring  of  his  being 
prompts  a  man  to  think  it  big  and  bold  and  hearty 
of  him  to  speak  with  such  cynical  contemptuous- 
ness  of  a  fellow  man  returned  to  rigid  clay. 

We  had  arrived  at  our  destination,  I  was  told. 
But  I  saw  nothing,  but  what  was  (seemingly)  a 
rather  handsome  private  residence,  set  in  a  pleas- 

[95] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

ant  lawn.  Though  I  did  discern  by  the  door  a 
modest  plate  which  read  (as  I  recall  the  name) 
"Wentworth  Brothers,"  nothing  more.  Went- 
worth  Brothers  might  have  been,  for  all  the  ex 
terior  evidence  to  the  contrary,  architects,  or 
teachers  of  dancing  and  the  piano,  or  breeders 
of  pedigreed  dogs,  or  dealers  in  antiques,  or 
physical  instructors,  or  almost  anything  you 
please. 

This  I  soon  learned  was  the  fundamental  prin 
ciple  of  the  sensitive  art  of  the  mortician — to 
scrap  all  the  old  stage  properties  of  the  buga 
boo  type  of  undertaker. 

We  passed  into  a  charming  hall,  light  and 
cheerful,  furnished  in  excellent  taste,  altogether 
domestic  in  effect.  A  number  of  bright  looking 
people,  apparently  attached  to  the  premises,  were 
lightly  moving  about.  I  had  somewhat  the  sen 
sation  of  having  come  to  a  most  agreeable  after 
noon  tea. 

I  was  presented  to  my  host,  as  cheerful,  whole 
some  and  cordial  a  young  chap  as  anyone  would 
care  anywhere  to  see.  The  senior,  he,  of  the 
brothers.  I  had  been  a  little  depressed  that 
morning,  having  a  bad  cold  and  being  fretted  by 
a  number  of  gloomy  things,  but  as  we  proceeded 
[96] 


OUR  LAST  SOCIAL  ENGAGEMENT 

through  the  house  my  spirits  picked  up  decidedly. 
I  experienced  a  feeling  of  mental  and  physical 
well-being,  so  attractive  was  everything  about. 

A  dainty  reception  room  opened  off  the  hall 
at  the  front.  My  impression  was  of  a  nice 
amount  of  charming  Colonial  furniture.  Alto 
gether  such  a  room  as  you  might  see  in  an  illus 
tration  in  the  magazine  House  and  Garden.  Se 
cluded  back  of  this  rooms  having  a  brisk  atmos 
phere  and  serving  as  offices.  Peopled  by  very 
trim  and  efficient  looking  young  people. 

We  descended  to  the  "stock  room,"  a  most  san 
itary  looking  place  of  cement  floor,  ceiling  and 
walls,  where  was  a  large  store  of  caskets  of  many 
varieties.  Behind  this  a  spick  and  span  embalm 
ing  room  which  ( except  for  the  two  tables )  some 
what  suggested  an  admirable  creamery.  Here  I 
discovered  that  to  the  mind  of  the  mortician  tow 
els  belong  to  the  Dark  Ages.  The  up-to-date 
way  of  drying  hands  is  by  holding  them  before 
a  blast  of  air  turned  on  from  a  pipe. 

We  ascended  to  the  third  floor.  Here  were 
the  chapels,  rooms  which  might  have  been  de 
signed  to  accommodate  fashionable  audiences  at 
tending  literary  lectures.  In  connection  with 
them  a  tiny  "minister's  study,"  not  unlike  the 

[97] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

sanctum  of  a  university  professor.  Also  here 
small  hotel  suites,  each  with  bath  attached,  avail 
able  for  the  bereaved  from  out  of  town.  Here, 
too,  snug  quarters  for  wakes.  And  a  spacious 
chamber  wherein  friends  may  sit  for  a  little  last 
visit  with  the  departed.  The  dominant  article  of 
furniture  in  this  room  an  Empire  lounge  such  as 
we  see  supporting  the  figure  of  Madame  Reca- 
mier  in  the  famous  portrait  by  David.  A  con 
summate  refinement  was  shown  me  on  this  floor : 
telephones,  concealed  behind  panels  in  the  wall, 
with  no  bells  to  jangle  over-tried  nerves,  but  with 
a  tiny  red  electric  globe  on  the  wall  to  light  as 
the  signal. 

The  top  floor  a  dormitory  for  male  employees, 
having  much  the  effect  of  rooms  for  boys  at  col 
lege,  gay  soft  cushions,  pipes  and  mandolins  scat 
tered  about. 

I  lingered  for  a  smoke  and  a  chat  with  my 
host  on  the  ground  floor  in  an  oak  panelled  room 
like  the  library  of  a  gentleman's  club  before 
leaving. 

I  came  away  with  (I  very  much  fear)  an  idea 
that  I  should  like  to  go  back  tomorrow  and  see 
some  one  of  my  friends  so  agreeably  buried  from 
that  place. 
[98] 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHITING  IN  ROOMS 

1  REMEMBER  that  I  was  somewhat  sur 
prised  when  E.  V.  Lucas  expressed  surprise 
that  I  was  writing  in  my  room  at  the  hotel  where 
we  both  happened  to  be  at  the  same  time  for  sev 
eral  days  last  summer.  He  declared  with  an  ex 
pression  of  sharp  distaste  that  he  could  not  write 
in  hotel  rooms.  But  said  he  had  no  difficulty  in 
writing  on  trains.  That  rather  got  me,  because 
I  can't  write  at  all  on  trains.  And  possibly  be 
cause  I  was  a  bit  peeved  at  the  easy  way  in  which 
he  spoke  of  doing  that  exceedingly  difficult  thing, 
writing  on  trains,  I  asserted  in  reply  that  anybody 
ought  to  be  able  to  write  in  any  kind  of  a  room. 
But  I  do  know,  what  every  writer  knows,  that 
the  particular  room  one  may  be  in  can  make  a 
good  deal  of  difference  in  the  way  one  is  able 
to  write. 

Of  course,  it  does  appear  to  be  true  that  there 
are  writers  of  a  kind  that  can  write  anywhere 
i»  any  circumstances,  apparently  with  equal  fa- 

[99] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

cility  and  their  customary  standard  of  merit, 
whatever  that  may  be.  I  suppose  war  corre 
spondents  must  be  like  that,  and  reporters  for 
daily  newspapers.  We  know  that  a  good  many 
war  books  were  announced  as  having  been  writ 
ten  in  dugouts,  trenches,  pill-boxes,  tanks,  sub 
marines,  hospitals,  airplanes  and  so  on.  In  the 
matter  of  some  of  them  I  should  not  undertake 
to  dispute  that  they  had  even  been  written  in 
asylums. 

I  have  known,  and  known  well,  men  of  that 
type  of  mind  which  seemed  to  be  so  completely 
under  control  that  at  will  it  could  be  turned  on 
or  off,  so  to  say,  like  the  stream  from  a  water 
faucet.  My  friend  Joyce  Kilmer  had  such  a 
head.  It  has  been  told  how  some  of  his  most 
moving  poems — for  one  instance  "The  White 
Ships  and  the  Red" — were  the  result  of  hurried 
newspaper  assignments:  how  he  could  leave  a 
poem  in  the  middle  of  its  composition,  go  out 
and  lunch  heartily  for  two  hours,  return  and 
finish  the  writing  of  it;  how  early  in  his  career 
he  would  walk  up  and  down  a  room  of  his  home 
in  suburban  New  Jersey  at  two  in  the  morning 
and  dictate  (without  a  pause)  to  his  wife  while 
carrying  a  shrilly  crying  child  in  his  arms;  how 
[100] 


WRITING  IN  ROOMS 

one  of  the  best  of  his  "Sunday  stories"  was  dic 
tated  directly  after  having  been  taken  to  a  hos 
pital  with  three  ribs  fractured  by  being  hit  by  his 
commutation  train — and  how  much  more.  A 
young  man  with  a  brain  in  perfect  practical  work? 
ing  condition.  But  even  he  was  not  free  from 
the  mysterious  tricks  of  creative  writing.  For 
we  know  that  after  a  daily  round  sustained  for  a 
number  of  years  of  high  productivity,  when  he 
went  into  the  war,  which  inspired  countless  others 
to  begin  writing,  he  suddenly  ceased  to  write, 
practically  altogether. 

Poets  and  trains  being  up,  brings  to  my  mind 
my  friend  the  Reverend  Edward  F.  Garesche, 
S.  J.,  a  source  of  amusement  to  many  of  his 
friends  because  of  his  method  of  composition. 
He  travels  continually.  Frequently  he  will  ex 
cuse  himself  from  a  group  with  whom  he  is  talk 
ing,  go  to  his  own  seat,  request  the  porter  to  bring 
him  a  card  table,  get  out  his  travelling  typewriter, 
rattle  off  several  poems,  return  to  his  party  and 
resume  conversation  at  about  where  he  had  left 
off.  Some  of  his  poems  are  very  good;  some 
(I'm  sorry  to  have  to  say)  are — not  so  good. 

And  so  round  we  come  again  to  the  matter  of 
writing  in  rooms.  We  know  how  Booth  Tar- 

[101] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

kington  writes:  in  what  he  calls  a  "work  spree," 
in  a  room  upstairs  at  home,  a  pile  of  freshly  sharp 
ened  pencils  ready  to  his  hand — and  that,  doubt 
less,  he  wouldn't  be  able  to  write  anything  in 
an  office  if  he  were  to  be  hanged  for  not  doing  it. 
(Probably  never  goes  to  an  office.)  Meredith 
Nicholson,  on  the  other  hand,  declares  that  the 
only  way  it  is  possible  for  him  to  write  is  to  go 
regularly  at  nine  o'clock  every  morning  to  an 
office  he  has  downtown;  where  he  tells  anyone 
who  may  ask  over  the  telephone  that  he'll  be 
there  until  five  in  the  afternoon. 

There  are  persons  who  like  to  have  others 
around  them,  moving  about,  while  they  write. 
And  people  there  are  who  find  it  necessary  to 
lock  themselves  up,  and  can  have  no  one  else  in 
the  room.  Though  in  some  cases  such  persons 
would  not  mind  the  bang  of  a  bass-drum  just  the 
other  side  of  the  door.  I  know  a  man  who  had 
an  office  in  lower  Manhattan  where  for  a  con 
siderable  period  just  outside  his  open  window  a 
steam  riveter  was  at  work.  Terrific  it  was,  the 
way  the  noise  of  this  machine  smashed  the  air  into 
tiny  particles  like  a  shower  of  broken  glass.  Call 
ers  who  found  this  man  contentedly  writing 
would  hold  their  ears  and  look  at  him  with  their 
[102] 


WRITING  IX  ROOMS 

hair  on  end  from  amazement.  A  man  of  highly 
nervous  organism,  too;  one  who  would  be  very 
upset  if  his  typewriter  had  a  pale  ribbon,  or  be 
spoiled  for  the  day  if  he  couldn't  find  the  right 
pen — worn  over  just  to  his  liking  at  the  point. 
But,  after  the  first  day  or  so,  Mr.  Soaping  (name 
of  the  gentleman  I'm  telling  you  about)  I  know 
didn't  hear  the  riveter  at  all. 

Then  those  exist,  Royal  Cortissoz  is  one,  who, 
dictating  all  they  do,  can  have  in  the  room  while 
they  work  only  their  secretary.  Frequently  is 
it  the  case,  too,  that  none  but  the  amanuensis  to 
whom  they  have  been  long  accustomed  will  do. 
A  stranger  throws  'em  completely  off.  A  novel 
ist  I  know,  the  writer  of  a  very  good  style,  who 
becomes  very  much  fussed  up,  and  is  practically 
destroyed,  when  he  suspects  a  secretary  of  giv 
ing  critical  attention  to  the  manner  of  his  prose. 
An  embarrassing  thing  about  most  stenogra 
phers,  I  have  found,  is  that  they  are  greatly 
grieved  if  you  say  "  'em"  for  "them,"  or  any 
thing  like  that.  Or  else  they  won't  let  you  do 
such  things  at  all,  and  edit  everything  pleasant 
back  into  perfectly  good  copy-book  English. 
Some  of  them  won't  even  let  you  split  an  in 
finitive. 

[103] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

Who  was  it,  Voltaire,  Richard  Brinsley  Sheri 
dan,  somebody,  who  could  write  only  when  elab 
orately  got  up  in  his  satins  and  ruffles?  It  is 
what  not  long  ago  was  called  a  bromidium  to  say 
that  humorists  are  sad  people.  I'd  probably  be 
thought  humorous  if  I  should  call  myself  any 
particular  flier  as  a  humorist,  but  this  I  know: 
wherever  in  my  writing  I  may  have  approached 
being  amusing  that  generally  was  written  when 
I  was  considerably  depressed.  Forenoon  is  the 
best  time  for  some  to  write;  late  at  night  for 
others.  "Ben  Hur,"  I  seem  to  recall,  was 
penned  beneath  a  noble  tree.  At  any  rate,  we 
frequently  see  pictures  of  novelists,  particularly 
in  England,  at  work  in  their  gardens.  The  most 
familiar  photographs,  etchings,  medallions  and 
so  on  of  Mark  Twain  and  of  Robert  Louis  Ste 
venson  at  work  are  those  of  them  writing  in  bed. 
Now  I  can't  (as  some  so  take  their  breakfast) 
eat  in  bed;  and  I'm  quite  sure  I  should  never  be 
able  comfortably  to  write  anything  there.  I  do 
not  tell  you  how  it  is  with  me  because  I  regard 
it  as  of  deep  interest  to  you  to  hear  how  it  is 
with  me,  but  merely  to  aid  me  in  assembling  a 
collection  of  facts  concerning  the  freakishness 
[104] 


WRITING  IN  ROOMS 

of  writing,  and  to  suggest  to  you  how  very  dif 
ferent  it  may  be  with  you. 

And  I  couldn't  write  under  a  tree.  One 
writer,  perhaps,  writes  more  easily  in  the  winter 
than  in  the  summer,  or  it  is  the  other  way  round. 
The  mind  of  one,  it  may  be,  is  stimulated  by 
the  companionship  of  an  open  fire,  and  that  of 
another  (for  aught  I  know)  by  the  companion 
ship  of  an  ice-box.  Personally,  I  think  that  it 
is  well  in  writing  for  the  weather  to  be  cool 
enough  to  have  the  windows  down;  and  that 
night  is  the  best  time,  for  the  reason  that  your 
mind  (or,  at  least,  my  mind)  is  more  gathered 
together  within  the  circle  of  light  at  your  desk. 

Frequently,  however  (as  you  know),  after 
sitting  for  hours  with  your  mind  plumb  stalled, 
it  is  not  until  shortly  before  your  bed  time  that 
that  eccentric  engine,  your  brain,  gets  buzzed 
up.  Then,  probably,  you  can't  call  the  thing 
off  if  you  want  to.  I  will  tell  you  a  story : 

A  man  there  is,  of  some  renown  as  a  writer, 
who  started  a  new  book  early  last  spring.  For 
some  considerable  time  he  had  been  much  dis 
couraged  about  his  writing.  Hadn't  been  able 
to  make  it  go.  Could  only  lift  heavily  and  pain 
fully  one  stilted  sentence  after  another.  Used 

[105] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

to  take  up  now  and  then  one  or  another  of  his 
early  books  and  look  into  it.  Marvelled  how  it 
was  that  he  ever  could  have  written  such  clever 
stuff.  Like  Swift  when  late  in  life  he  re-read 
"Gulliver,"  so  did  this  man  exclaim:  "What  a 
genius  I  had  at  that  time!"  He  felt  that  the 
fire  had  gone  out;  his  inner  life  seemed  to  have 
completely  died;  he  was  a  hollow  shell;  could 
now  neither  receive  nor  impart  anything  worth 
half  a  jews-harp.  When,  one  day,  he  heard 
rosy,  young  Hugh  Walpole  say  of  himself  that 
of  course  what  he  had  written  was  merely  a  be 
ginning  to  what  he  felt  he  might  do,  this  man 
looked  at  rosy,  young  Hugh  Walpole  with  a 
deeply  gloomy  and  very  jealous  eye. 

But,  lo!  as  I  say,  this  man  started  this  new 
book.  It  began  as  a  series  of  articles  for  which 
he  was  to  be  paid — that  was  why  it  was  begun 
at  all.  Now  see!  With  him  it  was  as  Profes 
sor  George  Edward  Woodberry  says  of  Poe 
in  his  admirable  "Life" — for  a  time  his  genius 
had  "slept."  With  the  start  of  the  new  book 
he  awoke.  It  began  to  run  right  out  of  the  ends 
of  his  fingers.  Took  (that  book)  hold  of  him 
completely.  He  couldn't  leave  it.  Go  to  bed, 
have  to  get  up  and  go  at  it  again.  Try  to  go 
[106] 


WRITING  IN  ROOMS 

out  for  a  round  of  exercise.  After  a  block  or 
so  from  his  quarters,  walk  slower  and  slower. 
Miserable.  Tortured.  Turn  back.  Imme 
diately  happy  again.  Soon  be  back  at  work. 
Anybody  who  entangled  him  with  an  invita 
tion  anywhere  enraged  him  beyond  measure. 

New  book  finished.  Everything  fine.  Got 
another  commission.  Easy  enough  job.  Set  to 
at  it.  Empty  vessel  again !  In  despair.  He'd 
make  all  sorts  of  excuses  to  himself  to  leave  his 
place  early  in  the  morning  to  postpone  beginning 
work.  He'd  go  anywhere,  with  anybody,  to  keep 
as  long  as  possible  from  facing  that  task  again. 
Couldn't  give  any  sensible  explanation  of  his 
prolonged  delay  to  the  publishers.  Kept  put 
ting  them  off  again  and  again,  with  one  cripple- 
legged  excuse  after  another,  in  the  hope  that  he'd 
come  round.  Matter  became  a  disgrace. 

Still  queerer  cases  than  that  I  know.  Fellow 
who  shared  an  apartment  with  me  one  time. 
When  according  to  the  accepted  law  of  nature 
his  mind  should  have  been  in  a  very  bad  way, 
then  always  was  he  at  his  best.  After  leading 
a  regular,  wholesome  life  for  a  period  his  mind 
would  become  dull,  stale  and  unprofitable. 
When,  following  a  very  different  sort  of  period, 

[107] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

he  should  in  all  reason  have  awakened  with  a 
splitting  head,  a  swollen  eye  and  a  shaking  hand, 
he  would  get  up  at  about  dawn  one  morning  in 
rattling  fine  spirits,  his  mind  as  clear  as  a  bell, 
and  with  an  impassioned  desire  to  work.  Could, 
then,  write  like  a  streak.  But  doesn't  William 
James  touch  upon  such  a  matter  as  this  some 
where  ? 

And  Stevenson,  how  wrong  he  got  the  thing! 
What  is  it  he  tells  us  as  to  the  years  of  appren 
ticeship  to  writing: 

It  is  only  after  years  of  such  gymnastic  that  one  can  sit 
down  at  last,  legions  of  words  swarming  to  his  call,  dozens 
of  turns  of  phrase  simultaneously  bidding  for  his  choice, 
and  he  himself  knowing  what  he  wants  to  do  and  (within 
the  narrow  limit  of  a  man's  ability)  able  to  do  it. 

Only  last  night  it  was  I  was  talking  to  Jesse 
Lynch  Williams.  He  said  nothing  of  "legipns 
of  words  swarming  to  his  call,"  nary  a  mention 
of  "dozens  of  turns  of  phrase  simultaneously 
bidding  for  his  choice."  Instead,  he  asked  if 
I  found  that  writing  came  easier  as  time  went 
on.  No,  he  said,  it  seemed  to  him  that  writing 
became  harder  and  harder  the  longer  one  wrote. 
That  he  had  torn  up  everything  he  had  done  for 
a  long  while. 

Always  the  paradox!  Again,  there  are  men 
[108] 


WRITING  IX  ROOMS 

who  write  with  astonishing  ease,  or  at  least  with 
astonishing  rapidity,  and  write  well.  Not  so 
long  ago  I  began  a  novel  in  collaboration  with  a 
writer  known  and  admired  from  coast  to  coast, 
a  frequent  contributor  to  The  Bookman,  and 
one  of  the  best.  We  were  to  do  this  thing  turn 
and  turn  about,  a  chapter  by  me,  then  a  chapter 
by  him,  and  so  on.  For  something  like  ten  days 
I  toiled  over  chapter  one.  I  labored  and  I 
groaned.  When  it  was  finished  I  was  spent.  I 
handed  him  the  manuscript;  he  stuffed  it  into 
his  overcoat  pocket  and  went  whistling  away. 
Returned  within  a  few  days  and  handed  me  a 
wad  of  copy  covering,  I  think,  three  chapters. 
Again  I  toiled  in  the  sweat  of  my  brow.  Gave 
him  another  chapter.  When,  after  a  couple  of 
weeks  or  something  like  that,  he  returned  and 
I  had  read  what  he  had  done  I  discovered  that 
he  had  got  people  married  that  I  hadn't  known 
were  yet  born.  The  collaboration  busted  up. 

My  excellent  friend  does  not  like  me  to 
tell  this  story,  because  he  thinks  it  represents 
me  as  the  conscientious  artist  and  him  as  the 
shallow  scribbler.  Well,  that  was  not  so;  his 
chapters  were  far  better  than  mine.  Neverthe 
less,  his  name  I  shall  not  give;  I'll  merely  say 

[109] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

that  it  has  very  much  the  sound  of  a  name  borne 
by  one  of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists. 

Then  there  is  that  sort  of  human  head-piece 
which  can  only  write  when  it  absolutely  has  to. 
I  allude  to  the  magical  instrument  of  coercion 
known  as  a  "copy  date."  I  know  people,  doz 
ens  of  them,  who  having  a  month  and  a  half 
ahead  of  them  in  which  to  do  an  article  can't  pos 
sibly  get  started  on  it  until  it  is  almost  too 
late  for  them  to  get  it  in  on  time  to  go  to  press 
— when  a  mad  frenzy  seizes  them,  their  indo 
lence  vanishes  like  mist  before  the  rising  sun, 
their  minds  open  like  a  flower,  and  all  is  well. 

And  the  "galley  slaves,"  those  poor  devils  who 
for  years  have  lived  under  the  whip  of  copy  day 
every  day.  How  they  dream  of  the  "real"  things 
they  might  do,  given  time.  If  (they  think)  the 
Lord  would  only  subsidize  them !  Now  and  then 
the  Devil  takes  one  of  them  and  does  this  very 
thing.  The  happy  man  gets  some  sort  of  a  sine 
cure.  All  he  has  to  do  is  to  go  write.  And  (in 
all  probability)  that's  all  there  is  to  that  story. 
He  is  like  those  things  Riley  tells  about  who 
"swaller  their  selves."  He  gets  nothing  written. 

What  do  you  write  with?  And  why  do  you 
write  with  whatever  it  is  you  write  with  instead 
[110] 


WRITING  IN  ROOMS 

of  with  something  else?  Why  did  Mr.  Howells 
(in  all  the  writing  of  his  which  I  have  seen)  use 
a  script-letter  typewriter  instead  of  a  Roman- 
letter  machine?  Why  does  Mr.  Le  Gallienne 
do  so  much  of  his  copy  (if  not  all  of  it)  by  hand? 
Why  is  it  that  Mr.  Huneker  could  never  either 
dictate  or  learn  to  run  a  typewriter?  How  is 
it  possible  for  those  Englishmen — Swinnerton 
and  Bennett,  for  instance — to  put  forth  in  a  few 
months  whole  novels  in  the  monkish  hand  of  an 
illuminated  missal?  (I  have  seen  the  original 
manuscript  of  "The  Old  Wives'  Tale,"  every 
page  like  a  copper-plate  engraving,  and  hardly  a 
correction  throughout.)  And  why  is  that  it 
seems  to  me  most  natural  to  write  some  things 
with  a  pen,  others  with  a  pencil,  most  things  on 
a  typewriter,  and  yet  again  mix  the  use  of  all 
three  implements  in  one  composition?  I  cannot 
tell  you. 

Some  authors,  if  they  are  going  to  write  about 
a  slum,  have  to  go  and  live  in  a  slum  while  they 
are  writing  about  a  slum.  Other  authors,  if  they 
are  going  to  write  about  life  in  an  Ohio  town, 
go  to  Italy  to  write  about  life  in  an  Ohio  town. 
In  his  excellent  book  "On  the  Trail  of  Steven 
son"  Clayton  Hamilton  says: 


\ 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

Throughout  his  lifelong  wanderings,  Stevenson  rarely  or 
never  attempted  to  describe  a  place  so  long  as  he  was  in  it. 
For  his  selection  of  descriptive  detail  he  relied  always  on 
the  subconscious  artistry  of  memory.  He  trusted  his  own 
mind  to  forget  the  non-essential ;  and  he  seized  upon  what 
ever  he  remembered  as,  by  that  token,  the  most  essential 
features  of  a  scene — the  features,  therefore,  that  cried  out 
to  be  selected  as  the  focal  points  of  the  picture  to  be  sug 
gested  to  the  mind's  eye  of  his  readers. 

The  author  of  the  thirteen  volumes  known  as 
"The  Chronicles  of  Barsetshire,"  a  detailed  pic 
ture  of  the  English  clergy  of  his  time,  had  never 
associated  with  bishops,  deans,  and  arch-deacons; 
he  built  them  up  (to  use  his  own  expression)  out 
of  his  "moral  consciousness." 

But  round  to  rooms  again.  Often  has  it  been 
[told  how  Anthony  Trollope  worked.  How  he 
accomplished  so  much — thirty-odd  novels  besides 
as  many  tales — by  a  method  he  recommended  to 
all  who  wish  to  pursue  successfully  the  literary 
career.  In  the  drawing  room  of  the  Athenaeum 
Club,  in  a  railway  carriage,  or  on  the  ocean,  wher 
ever  he  might  be  he  seated  himself  for  three  hours 
as  a  limit,  with  his  watch  before  him;  and  regu 
larly  as  it  marked  the  quarter  hour  he  turned  off 
two  hundred  and  fifty  words,  undisturbed  by  any 
distraction  about  him.  We  know  that  the  un 
lettered  man  of  genius,  John  Bunyan,  wrote  his 
[112] 


WRITING  IN  ROOMS 

immortal  allegory  "The  Pilgrim's  Progress"  in 
Bedford  jail.  And  there  is  being  advertised  now 
a  book  recently  written  in  an  American  prison. 
And  much  writing  has  been  done  in  garrets.  Then 
here's  our  old  friend  George  Moore.  Again  and 
again  he  has  told  of  exactly  the  places  it  was  nec 
essary  for  him  to  live  in  while  he  wrote  certain 
books.  I  open  at  random  "Ave" ;  and  I  find  this : 

I  descended  the  hillside  towards  the  loveliest  prospect 
that  ever  greeted  mortal  eyes.  .  .  .  And  I  walked  thinking 
if  there  were  one  among  my  friends  who  would  restore 
Mount  Venus  sufficiently  for  the  summer  months,  long 
enough  for  me  to  write  my  book. 

Now,  to  be  quite  frank  with  you,  I  didn't  in 
tend  to  write  this  paper  at  all.  You  may  re 
member  that  w^hen  I  set  out  I  was  merely  in 
disagreement  with  Mr.  Lucas  concerning  the 
matter  of  writing  in  a  hotel  room.  One  thing 
(as  it  will)  led  to  another;  and  the  upshot  has 
been  all  this  pother.  However,  there  are,  I  hope, 
no  bones  broken — and  that's  saying  a  good  deal 
for  any  kind  of  a  discussion  in  these  unsettled 
times. 

What  I  am  coming  to  is  (the  fashionable  thing 
to  come  to  nowadays)  the  psychic.  A  fellow  I 
know  was  much  puzzled.  He  recently  got  back 
to  16  Gramercy  Park  from  a  trip  around  the 

[113] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

world.  I  saw  him  there  having  some  toast  and 
a  pot  of  tea.  He  told  me  these  interesting  cir 
cumstances.  He  would  be  at  a  superbly  ap 
pointed  hotel  in  some  city.  Beautiful  suite  of 
rooms.  Commodious  bath-room  with  lovely  bay- 
window.  Everything  to  make  for  perfect  men 
tal  and  physical  well-being.  Impotent  to  write 
there.  Later  runs  into  some  terrible  dump  of  a 
lodging  house.  Horrible  din  of  low  noises  all 
about.  One  dirty  window  looks  out  on  scene 
of  squalor.  So  cold  at  night  has  to  put  chair 
on  bed  and  sit  there  to  be  nearer  gas  jet.  Gets 
on  wonderfully  with  writing.  Strikes  another 
place,  handsomest  of  all;  writes  pretty  well. 
Comes  to  most  fearful  place  yet;  can't  write  at 
all. 

Couldn't  make  head  nor  tail  of  the  matter, 
this  fellow.  Discussed  the  thing  with  many  peo 
ple.  Finally  found  young  woman  who  gave  con 
vincing  explanation.  It's  like  this:  Undoubt 
edly  you  are,  in  any  room,  affected  by  something 
of  the  spirit  which  lingers  there  of  former  occu 
pants.  Maybe  they  were  persons,  whatever  their 
station  in  life,  sympathetic  to  your  spirit — maybe 
not. 

[114] 


CHAPTER  X 

TAKING  THE  AIR  IN  SAN  FBANCISCO 

A  FEW  days  ago,  in  the  warm  and  brilliant 
winter  sunlight  there,  I  was  strolling  along 
the  Embarcadero.  Now  all  my  life  I  have  been 
very  fond  of  roving  the  streets.  .  .  . 

And  that  confession  reminds  me : 

I  one  time  heard  a  minister  (a  clergyman  of 
considerable  force  of  eloquence)  preach  a  ser 
mon  against  streets.  His  idea  seemed  to  be  that 
streets  were  not  good  for  one — that  they  were 
very  bad  places.  He  admonished  mothers  to  keep 
their  children  "off  the  streets."  He  regarded  it 
as  very  reprehensible  in  a  wife  for  her  to  "gad 
the  streets."  The  footpad  (he  said)  plied  the 
street  at  night,  while  the  righteous  were  at  home 
in  bed.  What  so  sad  as  "a  child  of  the  streets"? 
If  we  wished  to  describe  a  worthless  canine  we 
called  it  a  "street  dog."  The  outcast  has  his 
home  in  the  streets.  The  drunkard  makes  his 
bed  in  the  street.  It  was  painful  (I  gathered) 

Pi.] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

for  a  civilized  being  to  hear  the  "language  of  the 
street."  And  so  on. 

But  I  very  much  fear  that  the  eloquence  of 
this  gentleman  was  greater  than  his  Christianity. 
If  we  are  to  love  our  neighbors  as  we  do  ourselves, 
we  will  find  him  in  greatest  variety  in  the  streets. 
If  we  are  to  give  away  our  cloak,  the  beneficiary, 
I  should  think,  would  be  a  citizen  much  accus 
tomed  to  the  streets.  And,  as  far  as  I  can  make 
out,  there  is  more  rejoicing  in  heaven  over  the 
arrival  of  a  sister  who  has  "walked  the  streets" 
than  attends  the  reception  of  a  nun. 

Certainly  I  admit  that  roaming  the  streets 
(like  everything  else)  can  doubtless  be  overdone. 
Nevertheless,  to  most  people,  people  of  ordinary 
ways  of  life  (like  myself),  I  highly  recommend 
the  practice,  as  a  most  healthful  exercise,  as  a 
pleasant  course  of  profitable  education,  as  a 
source  of  endless  amusement,  and  as  a  Christian 
virtue.  The  trouble,  I  think,  with  most  of  us  is 
not  that  we  see  too  much  of  the  streets  but  that  we 
do  not  see  as  well  as  we  might  the  streets  we  hap 
pen  to  be  on.  We  do  not  read  as  we  run. 

So  I  would  write  an  article  In  Praise  of 
Streets. 

As  I  was  saying  (when  that  minister  switched 
[116] 


IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

me  off),  I  was  strolling  along  the  Embarcadero. 
Among  all  the  different  sorts  of  streets  there  are 
none  I  think  more  beguiling  than  those  which  lie 
along  the  water  front  of  a  town  or  a  city.  The 
water-front  streets  of  all  seaport  cities,  of  course, 
partake  very  much  of  the  same  character.  Par 
ticularly  in  the  picturesque  aspect  of  the  shop 
windows. 

Here  along  the  rim  of  San  Francisco  Bay  you 
pass  the  sparkling  pier  buildings  (now  and  then 
of  Spanish  mission  architecture)  of  the  Toyo 
Kisen  Kaisha  Oriental  S.  S.  Co.,  of  the  American 
Hawaiian  S.  S.  Co.,  the  Kosmos  Line,  and  the 
Pacific-Alaska  Navigation  Co.,  among  others. 
While  on  New  York's  West  Street  you  see  the 
structures  of  the  White  Star  Line,  the  Cunard 
Line,  the  Red  Star  Line,  erected  in  masonry  of 
a  sort  of  mammoth  and  glorified  garage  architec 
ture,  funnels  and  masts  peeping  over  the  top; 
and  further  down  the  frame  sheds  of  the  Morgan 
Line,  the  Clyde  Steam  Ship  Company,  Savan 
nah  Line,  Lackawanna  Rail  Road,  Hoboken 
Ferry,  and  so  on.  But  the  tastes  of  the  sailor 
man  as  a  shopper  appear  to  be  very  much  the 
same  whether  he  is  along  the  London  docks,  on 
West  Street,  by  Boston  piers  or  here  on  the  Em- 

[117] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

barcadero.  In  this  the  West  and  the  East  do 
meet. 

The  aesthetic  taste  of  the  water  front  inclines, 
very  decidedly,  to  the  ornate.  As  (presumably) 
a  present  to  a  lady  and  a  decoration  for  the  home 
the  favorite  object  seems  to  be  a  heavy  china 
plate.  A  romantic  landscape,  or  a  moonlight 
scene,  or  perhaps  a  still  life  study  of  portly  roses 
is  "hand  painted"  in  very  thick  pigment  on  its 
face.  Its  rim  is  plaited  in  effect,  like  the  edge 
of  a  fancy  pie,  and  through  numerous  openings 
in  this  rim  is  run  a  heavy  ribbon  by  which  to  hang 
it  on  the  wall. 

Next  in  prominence  in  the  window  displays 
of  water-front  bazaars  is  the  set  of  bleary-colored 
glass  ware  (upper  edges  bound  in  gold)  which 
I  take  to  be  designed  for  the  purpose  of  serving 
punch,  or  perhaps  lemonade — a  large  bowl  of 
warty  surface,  with  a  number  of  cups  to  match 
hanging  from  hooks  at  its  brim. 

The  water  front  obviously  is  strong  for  the 
amenities,  the  arts  and  the  refinements  of  life. 
Bottles  of  perfume  (with  huge  bows  of  ribbon 
at  their  necks )  are  in  great  abundance  in  its  shop 
windows;  as  also  are  packets  of  boudoir  soap 
(Dawn  Lilac  seems  to  be  the  favorite),  toilet 
[118] 


IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

powders,  silk  initial  handkerchiefs,  opera  glasses, 
ladies'  garters  of  very  fluffy  design,  feminine 
combs  ornamented  with  birds  in  gilt,  exceedingly 
high  stand-up  collars  for  gentlemen,  banjos,  gui 
tars,  mandolins,  accordions  (of  a  great  variety 
of  sizes),  harmonicas,  playing  cards,  dice  and 
poker  chips. 

As  for  the  rest  of  the  display,  it  is  a  multi 
farious  collection :  rubber  hip-boots,  hair  clippers, 
money  belts,  brogans,  bandana  handkerchiefs,  bi 
noculars,  tobacco  pouches,  spools  of  thread,  pitch- 
black  plug  tobacco,  hand  searchlights,  heavy  un 
derwear,  woolen  sox,  razor  strops,  tin  watches, 
shaving  brushes,  elaborately  carved  pipes,  trays 
of  heavy  rings,  and  here  and  there  some  quaint 
curiosity,  such  as  a  little  model  of  a  sailing  ship 
in  a  bottle  which  it  could  not  have  entered  through 
the  mouth,  or  some  such  oddity  as  that. 

One  old  friend  of  mine  on  West  Street  I  missed 
on  the  Embarcadero.  And  that  is  (very  battered 
and  worn  are  the  specimens  of  him  which  remain 
as  the  last  of  his  noble  race)  the  cigar-store 
wooden  Indian. 

And  (I  much  regret)  neither  on  the  Embarca 
dero  nor  on  any  other  water  front  in  America 
do  we  have  the  rich  costume  ball  effects  that  you 

[119] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

find  about  the  docks  of  London.  There  (as  you 
remember)  about  the  East  India  and  the  West 
India  docks  may  be  observed  tall,  dark  visaged 
figures  in  loosely  flowing  robes  and  brilliant  tur 
bans  solemnly  pushing  along  high  laden  trucks 
and,  high  above  on  the  decks  of  ships,  hauling 
away  at  ropes. 

But  on  the  shore  side  of  the  San  Francisco 
water  front,  my  fancy  was  much  taken  by  the  salt 
sea  savor  of  the  signs  of  the  houses  of  entertain 
ment — signs  reminiscent  of  the  jovial  days  of 
briny  romance,  echoed  in  the  chantey  in  "Treas 
ure  Island,"  which  has  as  its  refrain: 

Yo,  ho,  ho,  and  a  bottle  of  rum. 

I  passed,  among  others,  the  Marine  Cafe,  the 
Navy  Cafe,  the  Admiral  Cafe,  the  Harbor  Bar, 
and  the  Ferry  Cafe. 

I  did  not  turn  up  Market  Street,  but  went  on 
around  the  nose  of  the  peninsula,  which  is  the 
foundation  of  San  Francisco.  I  passed  a  three- 
masted  ship,  the  Lizzie  Vance,  lying  by  her  wharf, 
with  men  aloft  in  her  rigging.  Then  I  clambered 
up  endless  relays  of  rickety  wooden  stairs  mount 
ing  Telegraph  Hill.  On  either  side  of  the  lad 
der-like  steps,  ramshackle  cabins  bedecked  with 
[120] 


IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

lines  of  fluttering  "wash."  Like  the  celebrated 
editor  of  Puck,  H.  C.  Bunner,  I  might  say  that 
in  my  travels  I've  missed  many  a  cathedral  but 
I  never  missed  a  slum. 

I  went  along  through  the  Latin  Quarter,  slid 
down  the  steep  slope  of  Kearny  Street,  and  found 
myself  wandering  into  that  quaint  little  park, 
Portsmouth  Square,  where  R.  L.  S.  in  his  most 
stressful  days  lounged  in  the  sun  and  listened  to 
the  tales  of  the  vagabonds  of  the  Seven  Seas. 
Somewhat  bigger  than  tiny  Gramercy  Park, 
hardly  as  large  as  little  Madison  Square,  this 
park.  In  the  center  of  the  bit  of  rolling  lawn, 
before  a  towering  screen  of  rustling  trees,  the 
graceful  little  stone  ship,  buoyant  on  its  curling 
stone  wave,  rides  atop  its  tall  stone  pedestal 
graved  "To  Remember  Robert  Louis  Steven 
son,"  and  on  the  face  of  which  is  cut  that  most 
fragrant  of  creeds,  which  (as  everyone  knows) 
begins:  "To  be  honest,  to  be  kind,  to  earn  a  lit 
tle  and  to  spend  a  little  less,  to  make  upon  the 
whole  a  family  happier  for  his  presence"  .  .  . 

Behind  the  bench  on  which  I  rested  was  the 
establishment,  so  proclaimed  the  legend  printed 
on  its  front,  of  Wing  Sun,  Funeral  Director. 
For,  as  you  know,  Portsmouth  Square  is  em- 

[121] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

braced  on  one  side  by  prosperous  Chinatown,  and 
on  the  other  by  the  Italian  quarter  of  San  Fran 
cisco.  And  the  races,  Latin  and  Oriental,  min 
gle  in  the  little  park  to  take  the  air. 

What  here  is  still  more  colorful  and  pictur 
esque,  frequently  there  is  a  striking  and  amusing 
mixture  of  races  in  the  costume  of  an  individual 
figure.  A  Manchu  lady,  it  may  be,  of  waxen, 
enigmatic  features,  draped  in  flowing  black  silken 
trousers,  hobbles  along  on  high-heeled,  pearl-col 
ored  American  shoes.  And  there  a  slim  reed  of 
an  Oriental  maiden,  with  a  complexion  like  a  Cal 
ifornia  orange,  whisks  by  in  the  smartest  of  tail 
ored  suits — without  a  hat,  her  gleaming  black 
hair  done  in  Chinese  fashion,  long  ornamented 
rods  thrust  through  it,  a  vivid  pendant  of  bright 
blossoms  at  one  side  of  the  head. 

Sitting  there,  I  thought  of  the  nature  of  public 
parks  and  what  pleasant  places  they  are. 

Splendid  thing,  elaborate  park  "systems," 
whereby  you  may  go  for  miles  through  a  grimy 
city,  and  move  among  groves  and  meadows  and 
bosky  dells,  with  inspiriting  glimpses  of  mirror- 
like  ponds  and  flashing  streams  all  the  way.  And 
of  course  I  enjoy  the  great  parks  of  a  great  city. 

But  more  appealing  to  me  than  the  gorgeous 
[122] 


IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

spectacle  of  Hyde  Park,  or  Van  Cortlandt,  or 
Fairmont,  or  Jackson,  or  Forest  Park  are  the 
little  places  tucked  here  and  there  in  the  seething 
caldron  of  the  town.  These  are  a  lovely  depart 
ment  of  the  streets — they  are  the  little  parlors  of 
the  streets.  Here  calls  are  made,  and  infants 
sun  themselves — they  have,  these  parklets,  their 
social  and  their  domestic  life,  under  the  demo 
cratic  heavens. 

Now  soon  is  a  time  to  watch  with  joy  these 
plots  of  open  space  in  the  city's  rushing  life. 

Spring  is  more  winsome  on  Boston  Common  and 
at  Union  Square  than  in  the  country.  A  tuft 
of  green  shoots  seen  against  canyon  walls  of  steel 
and  stone — one  must  be  in  the  city  to  savor  the 
tenderness  of  spring. 

And  when  summer  comes  and  (in  our  eastern 
climate )  all  the  town  swelters  under  a  blanket  of 
gritty  dust  and  heavy  heat,  then  one  comes  upon 
one  of  these  small  areas  of  greenery  with  the  re 
freshment  of  spirit  with  which  at  the  meal  hour 
one  greets  the  appearance  of  a  nice,  cool,  green 
salad. 

I  arose  from  my  seat  in  Portsmouth  Square 
and  wandered  off  for  the  rest  of  the  day  through 
the  Streets. 

[123] 


CHAPTER  XI 

BIDDING  MR.   CHESTERTON  GOOD-BYE 


note,  which  came  altogether  as  a  sur- 
JL  prise,  read:  "My  husband  suggests  that  if 
you  have  nothing  better  to  do  perhaps  you  would 
look  in  upon  us  on  Wednesday  evening  at  about 
eight-thirty."  Mrs.  Chesterton  further  said,  in 
giving  the  address,  that  they  had  a  little  apart 
ment  lent  to  them  for  the  last  week  of  their  stay 
here.  She  had  asked  Mr.  Woollcott  to  come,  too, 
and  Gerald  Stanley  Lee.  .  .  .  "We  can  only 
promise  you  smokes  and  talk." 

I  wondered,  as  I  hurried  for  the  'bus,  whether 
I'd  have  time  to  get  my  shoes  polished.  It  was 
precisely  the  hour  appointed  when  I  reached  what 
I  took  to  be  the  door.  The  hall-man  declared 
that  he  had  "gone  out."  I  insisted  that  the  hall- 
man  telephone  up.  "No  answer,"  he  said,  after 
a  bit,  and  hung  up.  Now  what  do  you  think  of 
that!  Well,  I'd  take  a  walk  and  return  a  little 
later. 

[124] 


BIDDING  CHESTERTON  GOOD-BYE 

As  I  was  rounding  the  corner  coming  back  I 
saw  an  agile,  rotund  figure,  with  a  gleam  of  white 
shirt-front  in  the  half  darkness,  mounting  the 
dusky  steps  instead  of  descending  into  the  lighted 
areaway.  Looked  kinda  like  Mr.  Woollcott.  If 
so,  the  gentleman  was  going  wrong,  so  I  called  to 
him. 

"He  has  not  come  back,"  the  hall-man  asserted, 
but  assented  to  our  demands  to  ring  up  again. 
No  response.  "It  was  about  an  hour  ago  he 
went  out,"  he  replied  to  our  question.  Standing 
there,  Mr.  Woollcott  and  I  contrived  several  the 
ories.  One  was  that  Mr.  Chesterton  had  intended 
to  return  by  now  but  had  lost  track  of  the  time. 
Another  was  that  possibly  Mrs.  Chesterton  had 
invited  us  on  her  own  hook  and  had  overlooked 
notifying  Mr.  Chesterton  of  the  matter.  "Has 
a  third  gentleman  been  here?"  we  asked,  meaning 
Mr.  Lee.  No.  We  went  for  a  stroll. 

It  was  nine  o'clock.  And  Mr.  Woollcott's 
manner  indicated  that  he  was  inclined  to  take 
some  sort  of  revenge  on  the  hall-man.  Was  he, 
the  hall-man,  certain  that  he  had  everything 
straight?  "Sure,"  he  nodded;  "it's  Mr.  Cush- 
man's  apartment."  Mr.  Cushman's  apartment! 
Had  we,  then,  been  blundering  in  the  wrong  place 

[125] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

all  this  time!  "Mr.  Chesterton!"  roared  Mr. 
Woollcott.  Yes,  yes;  he  understood  that  .  .  . 
the  gentleman  had  come  in  yesterday.  That  was 
right  according  to  the  note  I  had  had  from  Mrs. 
Chesterton;  so  we  demanded  that  the  man  make 
another  effort  at  the  telephone.  Ah!  ...  he 
heard  something.  "It's  all  right,"  he  mumbled; 
"they  are  there." 

As  we  got  out  of  the  car  Mr.  Chesterton  was 
cramming  the  tiny  hall.  He  was  in  an  attitude 
which  I  took  to  be  that  of  a  bow,  but  I  later 
discovered,  as  he  shuffled  back  and  forth  about 
*the  apartment,  that  he  walks  that  way  all  the 
time  now  when  in  the  privacy  of  his  own  quarters. 
Mrs.  Chesterton  greeted  us  as  we  entered  the 
room,  Mr.  Chesterton  trailing  in  behind  us  and 
continuing  a  welcoming  murmur  which  had  some 
what  the  sound  of  a  playful  brook.  Mrs.  Ches 
terton  ensconced  herself  behind  a  tea  table.  Mr. 
Chesterton  lumbered  about  with  cigars.  He  dis 
claimed  the  great  easy  chair  by  the  electric  table 
lamp  in  which  it  was  unmistakable  that  he  had 
been  sitting,  but  was  prevailed  upon  to  return 
to  it. 

In  apology  for  the  lateness  of  our  arrival  we 
mentioned  our  difficulties  in  discovering  that  he 
[126] 


Y 


K 

BIDDING  CHESTERTON  GOOD-BYE 

was  in.  Mr.  Chesterton  seemed  bewildered  by 
the  circumstance.  He  shook  his  head  and  (evi 
dently  referring  to  the  hall-man)  said  he  was  not 
able  to  understand  "that  foreigner"  at  all. 
"That  foreigner?"  we  smiled  at  the  Englishman. 
I  think  it  most  likely  that  the  explanation  of  his 
not  having  heard  our  earlier  rings  was  that  he 
was  not  familiar  with  the  system  of  bells  in  the 
apartment.  They  had  not  been  out,  he  declared ; 
oh,  yes !  they  had  been  out,  too,  a  good  while  ago, 
to  get  something  to  eat.  "We  are  camping  here," 
he  said,  "in  a  rather  Bohemian  fashion."  Didn't 
they  enjoy  that  as  a  change  from  life  in  fashion 
able  hotels  ?  Oh,  yes !  Very  much. 

They  wondered  if  Mr.  Lee  were  not  coming. 
Yes ;  he  had  assured  me  that  he  was,  when  I  had 
seen  him  that  afternoon  at  the  club.  In  fact, 
we  had  discussed  what  we  would  wear,  and  had 
agreed  on  dinner  jackets.  Mr.  Chesterton  was 
wearing  a  braid-bound  cutaway  coat  of  felt-like 
material  (very  much  wrinkled  in  the  skirt)  and 
dark  striped  trousers  of  stiffish  quality,  but  not 
I  recently  pressed.  His  bat-wing  collar  had  a 
sharp  crease  extending  outward  at  one  side  as 
though  it  were  broken.  Though  it  was  a  very 
warm  night  for  early  spring — a  hot  night,  in- 

[1271 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

deed — he  wore  uncommonly  heavy  woolen  sox, 
which  were  very  much  "coming  down"  about  his 
ankles.  His  comically  small  English  eye-glasses, 
with  a  straight  rod  joining  them  across  the  top, 
were  perpetually  coming  off  his  nose.  On  one 
finger  he  wore  a  rather  large  ring.  I  noticed 
that  for  so  large  a  man  his  hands  were  somewhat 
small,  and  were  delicately  made.  At  one  side  of 
him  were  three  ashtrays  (one  of  them  a  huge 
brass  bowl  well  filled  with  tobacco  ash)  and  at 
the  other  side  of  him  one  tray. 

Well,  what  sort  of  a  time  had  he  been  having? 
How  far  west  had  he  got?  He  had  been  as  far 
as  (I  think)  Omaha.  "Halfway  across,"  he 
said.  He  had  been  much  mystified  by  a  curious 
character  he  had  run  into  there :  a  strange  being 
whose  waistcoat  and  coat  front  were  covered  by 
symbolic  emblems,  crescents,  full  moons  and 
stars.  This  person  had  accosted  him  in  the  street 
saying,  "And  so  you  are  a  lecturer."  The  man  had 
then  informed  him  that  he  also  was  a  lecturer.  He 
lectured,  he  said,  on  astronomy.  "Indeed,  in  my 
country,"  Mr.  Chesterton  had  said,  "it  is  not  the 
custom  for  astronomers  to  display  on  their  person 
devices  symbolic  of  the  science  in  which  they  are 
engaged."  Next,  the  man  had  opened  his  coat 
[128] 


BIDDING  CHESTERTON  GOOD-BYE 

and  exhibited  the  badge  of  a  sheriff,  or  some  sort 
of  officer  of  the  peace.  Mr.  Chesterton  had  been 
astounded  to  discover  the  functions  of  a  man  of 
science,  a  lecturer  and  a  policeman  united  in  one 
and  the  same  person.  It  was  quite  evident  that 
this  (as  I  assume  he  was)  harmless  lunatic  had 
made  a  most  decided  impression  upon  Mr.  Ches 
terton's  mind;  he  took  the  eccentric  individual 
with  much  seriousness,  apparently  as  some  kind 
of  a  type;  indeed,  I  feared  that  we  would  never 
get  him  switched  off  from  talking  about  him ;  and 
I  have  no  doubt  that,  in  the  course  of  time,  this 
ridiculous  astronomer  will  appear  as  a  bizarre 
character  in  some  fantastic  tale,  a  personage  per 
haps  related  to  Father  Brown,  or  something  like 
that. 

Mr.  Chesterton  observed  that  he  had  enjoyed 
the  opportunity  of  seeing  various  grades  of 
American  life,  that  he  had  been  in  the  homes  of 
very  humble  people  as  well  as  in  houses  of  persons 
of  wealth  and  social  and  intellectual  position.  In 
a  former  article  I  noted  how  Mr.  Chesterton  had 
been  greatly  startled  to  find  (what  he  then  called) 
"wooden  houses"  in  this  country,  and  such  mul 
titudes  of  them.  He  now  returned  to  this  phen 
omenon.  What  was  his  one  outstanding  impres- 

[129] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

sion  of  the  United  States?  Well,  he  remarked 
that  he  had  said  it  before,  but  he  continued  to  be 
chiefly  struck  by  the  vast  number  of  "frame 
houses"  here. 

Mr.  Lee  arrived.  A  gentleman  who  looks  very 
much  as  though  you  were  looking  at  his  reflection 
in  one  of  those  trick  mirrors  (such  as  they  have 
at  Coney  Island)  which  humorously  attenuate 
and  elongate  the  figures  before  them.  Or,  again, 
perhaps  more  justly  still,  a  gentleman  who  looks 
as  though  Daumier  had  drawn  him  as  an  illus 
tration  for  "Don  Quixote."  In  his  evening 
clothes  (to  put  it  still  another  way) ,  a  gentleman 
who  looks  much  like  a  very  lengthened  shadow 
dancing  on  a  wall.  Mr.  Whistler  would  have 
made  something  very  striking  indeed  out  of  Mr. 
Lee  in  a  dinner  coat,  something  beautifully 
strange.  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  ever  seen 
anything  finer,  in  its  own  exceedingly  peculiar 
way,  than  Mr.  Lee,  thus  attired,  with  a  cup  of 
tea  in  his  hand. 

"Do  you  like  wine?"  Mr.  Woollcott  asked  Mr. 
Chesterton,  and  told  him  of  a  restaurant  nearby 
where  this  could  be  obtained.  Our  prohibition, 
Mr.  Chesterton  said,  did  not  bother  him  so  much 
as  might  be  thought,  as  for  reasons  having  to  do 
[130] 


BIDDING  CHESTERTON  GOOD-BYE 

with  his  health  he  was  (as  you  or  I  would  say) 
"off  the  stuff"  at  present. 

One  of  us,  Mr.  Woollcott  I  think,  commented 
upon  the  sweep  of  Mr.  Chesterton's  fame  in  the 
United  States.  The  opinion  was  advanced  that 
the  evening  of  the  day  he  landed  his  arrival  was 
known  in  every  literate  home  in  New  York.  Mr. 
Chesterton  was  inclined  to  think  that  his  "noto 
riety"  in  large  measure  came  from  his  "appear 
ance,"  his  "avoirdupois."  Knowledge  of  him  had 
spread  through  the  notion  that  he  was  a  "popular 
curiosity."  It  was  contended  that  his  writing 
had  been  well-known  over  here  ten  years  before 
his  pictures  became  familiar  to  us.  (Though, 
of  course,  I  myself  do  think  that  the  pictorial 
quality  of  his  corporeal  being  has  been  very  ef 
fective  publicity  for  him.) 

Then  there  was  another  thing  which  Mr.  Ches 
terton  thought  might  to  a  considerable  degree  ac 
count  for  his  American  celebrity.  That  was  this 
"tag"  of  "paradox."  People  loved  "easy  han 
dles"  like  that,  and  they  went  a  long  way.  Some 
how  or  other  we  let  this  point  pass,  or  it  got  lost 
in  the  shuffle,  and  the  discussion  turned  to  the 
question  of  whether  there  was  an  American  writer 
living  whose  arrival  in  England  would  command 

[131] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

anything  like  the  general  attention  occasioned  by 
Mr.  Chesterton's  entrance  into  the  United  States. 
We  could  not  think  of  anyone. 

Mark  Twain,  of  course;  yes.  O.  Henry, 
doubtless,  too.  And,  indeed,  in  the  matter  of 
years  O.  Henry  might  very  well  be  living  now. 
Mr.  Chesterton  quite  agreed  as  to  the  English 
welcome  of  Mark  Twain  or  of  O.  Henry.  Tom 
Sawyer  and  Huck,  he  said  musingly,  certainly 
were  "universal."  Then,  ponderingly,  he  ob 
served  that  English  and  American  literature 
seemed  to  be  getting  farther  and  farther  apart, 
or  more  and  more  distinct  each  from  the  other. 
That  is,  he  remembered  that  when  he  was  a  boy 
his  father  and  his  uncles  simply  spoke  of  a  new 
book  having  come  out  whether  it  had  been  written 
in  England  or  in  the  United  States.  As  in  the 
case  of  the  "Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table": 
when  it  appeared  it  was  enjoyed  and  talked  about 
by  everybody  in  England ;  but  not  spoken  of  there 
as  a  new  American  book :  it  was  a  new  book,  that's 
all.  Now,  however,  with  Englishmen  impressed 
by  the  "Spoon  River  Anthology,"  "and  rightly 
so,"  or  by  "Main  Street,"  "it  would  not  be  that 
way." 

He  had  much  liking  for  O.  Henry.  But  he 
[132] 


BIDDING  CHESTERTON  GOOD-BYE 

had  begun  by  not  liking  him.  He  had  been 
puzzled  by  the  "queer  commercial  deals"  on  which 
so  many  of  the  stories  turned — "buying  towns, 
selling  rivers."  He  had,  even  now,  to  re-read 
much  of  the  slang  to  get  the  meaning.  And  so 
we  talked  awhile  of  slang. 

"You  have  an  expression  here,"  said  Mr.  Ches 
terton,  shaking  his  head  as  though  that  were 
something  very  remarkable  indeed,  ffa  bad  actor." 
Much  mirth  from  Woollcott,  Lee  and  Holliday. 
"Now  in  England,"  Mr.  Chesterton  continued, 
"we  mean  by  that  one  who  has  mistaken  his  vo 
cation  as  to  the  stage.  But  I  discovered  that 
here  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  theatrical  pro 
fession."  Then,  it  developed,  some  reporter  in 
the  West  had  referred  to  him  as  "a  regular  guy." 
At  first  Mr.  Chesterton  had  been  for  going  after 
the  fellow  with  a  stick.  .  .  .  Certainly  a  topsy 
turvy  land,  the  United  States,  where  you  can't 
tell  opprobrium  from  flattering  compliment. 

Then  one  of  us  told  Mr.  Chesterton  a  story  of 
a  prize  line  of  American  slang.  He  (the  teller 
of  the  story)  had  got  a  letter  in  which  a  friend 
of  his  had  been  spoken  of  in  a  highly  eulogistic 
fashion.  Thinking  this  opinion  of  him  would 
please  his  friend  this  man  showed  the  letter  to 

[133] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

him.  The  gentleman  so  much  praised  in  it  read 
the  letter  and  remarked:  "Well,  whenever  I  get 
the  hand  I  always  see  the  red  light."  Mr.  Ches 
terton  looked  dazed.  "You'll  have  to  translate 
that  to  me,"  he  said.  It  was  explained  to  him 
that  the  meaning  of  this  was  that  whenever  this 
person  heard  applause  of  himself  he  always 
scented* danger.  "Oh,  oh!  I  see!"  crowed  Mr. 
Chesterton,  "the  hand,  the  hand,"  and  he  began 
clapping  his  hands  in  illustration  of  the  figure 
with  much  glee. 

"Glee,"  yes.  And  "crowed,"  also.  They  are 
the  words,  some  of  the  words,  to  describe  Mr. 
Chesterton's  sounds.  His  utterance  was  rapid, 
melodious.  The  modulations  of  his  softly  flow 
ing  voice  had  curiously  somewhat  the  effect  of  a 
very  cheerful  music-box.  His  easy  and  very  nat 
ural  command  of  a  great  multitude  of  words  was 
striking.  And  yet  there  was  something  decid 
edly  boyish  about  the  effect  of  his  talk.  I  think 
the  cause  of  this  was,  for  one  thing,  the  rather 
gurgling  enjoyment  with  which  he  spoke,  and 
for  another  thing,  in  his  impulsive  concern  for  the 
point  of  his  idea  he  frequently  did  not  trouble 
to  begin  nor  end  sentences.  He  just  let  'er  go. 
But  the  fundamental  source  of  this  boyishness 
[134] 


BIDDING  CHESTERTON  GOOD-BYE 

of  spirit  I  think  was  this :  I  do  not  believe  I  have 
ever  seen  a  man  who  had  borne  the  brunt  of  life 
for  some  forty-five  years  and  still  retained  such 
complete,  abounding,  unaffected  and  infectious 
good  humor  as  Mr.  Chesterton. 

"As  I  believe  I  have  said  somewhere  before," 
Mr.  Chesterton  was  saying,  "it  seems  to  me  that 
the  best  known  character  in  literature  is  Sherlock 
Holmes."  Mr.  Woollcott  was  inclined  to  con 
sider  Svengali.  Dear  me!  Svengali  may  have 
been  in  the  running  at  one  time,  but  it  strikes  me 
that  today  he  has  pretty  much  gone  by  the  board, 
somewhat  to  mix  the  figure. 

As  to  detective  stories:  "They  are  essentially 
domestic,"  declares  Mr.  Chesterton.  "Intimate, 
all  in  the  household,  or  ought  to  be.  The  chil 
dren's  nurse  should  murder  the  Bishop.  These 
things  where  the  Foreign  Office  becomes  involved 
and"  (chuckling)  "Indian  rajahs  and  military 
forces  come  in  are  never  right.  They  are  too 
big.  The  detective  story  is  a  fireside  story." 

Had  Mr.  Chesterton  been  much  to  the  theatre 
while  here  ?  No ;  the  only  thing  he  had  seen  was 
"The  Bat."  Something  like  anguish  on  the  face 
of  the  dramatic  critic  of  the  New  York  Times. 
Why,  he,  Mr.  Chesterton,  had  liked  "The  Bat," 

[135] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

a  good  deal.  Speaking  of  plays,  the  American 
presentation  of  "Magic"  came  into  the  conversa 
tion.  It  was  remarked  that  the  extremely  mys 
tical  character  of  the  setting  rather  crushed  the 
mysticism  of  the  play  itself.  The  idea  was  ad 
vanced  that  a  very  simple,  matter-of-fact,  even 
bleak  setting,  would  have  been  the  thing  to  act 
as  an  effective  foil  to  this  play.  Mr.  Chester 
ton  seemed  to  be  not  the  slightest  interested  in 
stage-settings.  And  he  knew  next  to  nothing 
at  all  about  the  career  of  "Magic."  He  wasn't 
even  sure  whether  or  not  he  held  any  proprietary 
rights  in  the  play.  There  was,  he  said  as  though 
fumbling  around  in  his  mind,  something  involved 
about  the  matter.  Friend  of  his  wanted  a  play. 
Necessary  to  finish  it  in  a  hurry.  He  didn't 
really  know,  answering  a  question  to  this  pur 
pose,  whether  or  not  he  received  any  royalties 
from  it. 

Mrs.  Chesterton  again  handed  about  some 
fudge.  The  collection  of  ash-trays  and  bowls 
surrounding  Mr.  Chesterton  had  become  jovially 
freighted  with  tobacco  ash  and  cigar  ends.  He 
smoked  his  cigars  in  an  economical  fashion,  down 
as  far  as  they  could  comfortably  be  held. 

There  was  one  thing  ''the  talk  had  turned  to 
[136] 


BIDDING  CHESTERTON  GOOD-BYE 

his  lecturing)  Mr.  Chesterton  "wished  you 
wouldn't  do  in  this  country,  or  that  we  didn't 
do  in  England,  either."  That  was  for  the  gen 
tleman  who  "introduced"  a  lecturer  to  refer  to 
his  "message."  In  his  own  case,  for  instance, 
how  ridiculously  was  this  term  misapplied.  The 
word  "message"  conveyed  something  "quite  the 
opposite  of  personality."  Or,  that  is,  before  its 
popular  corruption  it  had  meant  something  very 
different.  It  meant  that  something  was  carried. 
One  with  a  message  was  a  messenger,  a  vessel,  an 
envelope.  It  was  hard  to  think  of  a  figure  who 
could  rightly  be  said  to  have  a  message.  The  Old 
Testament  prophets,  Mohammed,  perhaps. 
Whitman,  now  certainly  you  couldn't  say  that 
Whitman  had  a  message. 

A  ring;  and  Mr.  Cushman  came  in.  Youth 
fully  cropped  grey  hair.  A  gentleman  who 
looked  like  a  habitual  first-nighter. 

Yes,  Mr.  Chesterton  was  telling  us,  it  was  a 
curious  thing.  He  had  always  heard  that  Ameri 
cans  worshipped  machines.  A  machine  every 
where  here,  and  a  machine  brought  to  an  amaz 
ing  state  of  mechanical  perfection,  was  the  eleva 
tor,  as  we  called  it.  When  he  had  first  got  into 
an  American  elevator  he  had  been  arrested  by 

[137] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

the  fact  that  the  men  entering  it  took  off  their 
hats  and  stood  silently  with  bared  heads  as  it 
ascended.  It  is  so,  he  had  said  to  himself,  they 
are  at  worship,  at  prayer,  this  is  some  religious 
rite,  mystic  ceremony,  the  elevator  is  their  temple. 

Had  he  been  in  our  subway?  was  asked.  No; 
he  had  been  down  in  a  station  one  time,  but  he 
had  not  ridden  on  one  of  the  trains.  I  wish  now 
that  I  had  thought  to  cut  into  the  rapid  battle 
dore  and  shuttlecock  of  the  conversation  to  learn 
why  he  had  not  been.  Was  he  scared  of  'em? 

What  were  the  things  which  Mr.  Chesterton 
particularly  liked  in  the  United  States?  Well, 
for  one  thing,  he  very  much  liked  the  "elevated." 
He  thought  it  was  grand  up  in  the  air  that  way. 

And  what  had  be  especially  disliked?  Mr.  Lee 
apparently  had  knowledge  of  a  memorandum 
book  kept  by  Mrs.  Chesterton,  known  to  their 
intimate  little  circle  as  her  "Book  of  Likes  and 
Dislikes."  She  was,  with  some  difficulty,  pre 
vailed  upon  to  read  from  this — which  she  did  very 
guardedly,  clutching  the  book  very  firmly  before 
her.  Among  the  things  put  down  in  it  as  not 
liked  were  ice  cream,  ice  water,  "American  boots" 
(by  which  was  meant  women's  high-heeled 
shoes),  and  interviewers,  reporters  and  camera 
[138] 


BIDDING  CHESTERTON  GOOD-BYE 

men.  Things  especially  liked  included  parlor-car 
seats.  Mr.  Chesterton:  "I  don't  dislike  it,  now. 
I've  got  the  evil  habit  of  ice  water." 

"Lift,"  it  was  generally  agreed,  was  a  happier 
word  than  "elevator."  Mrs.  Chesterton  thought 
that  the  scientific,  technical,  correct,  or  whatever 
you  call  them,  words  for  things  always  took  all 
the  feeling  of  life  out  of  them.  "Aviator,"  for 
example,  had  no  color  at  all.  But  how  fine  in 
the  spirit  of  the  thing  was  the  popular  term  "fly 
ing-man,"  or  "fly -man"! 

The  conversation  had  got  momentarily  divided 
into  groups.  Mr.  Chesterton  was  heard  saying 
to  Mr.  Woollcott,  "The  time  I  mean  was  when 
Yeats  was  young — when  mysticism  was  jazz." 

Just  how  he  got  started  in  on  them  I  do  not 
recall.  He  began  with  Belloc's  most  entertain 
ing  and  highly  vivacious  ballad  which  has  the  re 
frain,  "And  Mrs.  James  will  entertain  the  king"; 
a  kind  of  a  piece  among  friends,  which  unfortu 
nately  is  not  in  any  book.  He  recited  with  a 
kind  of  joyous  unction,  nodding  his  head  forward 
and  back  from  side  to  side,  thus  keeping  time 
to  the  music  of  the  verse,  punctuating  the  close 
of  each  stanza  with  bubble  of  chuckles.  On  and 
on  and  on  and  on  he  went  through  goodness 

[139] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

knows  how  many  bits  of  rollicking  literary 
fooling. 

It  was  half  past  eleven.  I  saw  Mr.  Chester 
ton,  when  someone  else  was  speaking,  yawn 
slightly  now  and  then.  The  four  callers  arose 
to  go.  Some  one  of  us  asked  Mr.  Chesterton 
if  he  expected  to  be  back  in  America  soon. 
Through  a  wreath  of  smiles  he  replied  that  he 
was  not  getting  a  return  ticket  on  the  boat. 

The  two  of  them  were  framed  in  their  door 
way  as  we  got  into  the  "foreigner's"  car.  Mrs. 
Chesterton  called  to  us  that  she  hoped  to  see  us 
all  in  England,  "singly  or  together."  As  the 
car  dropped  from  their  floor  both  were  beaming  a 
merry,  friendly  farewell. 

Suddenly  it  struck  me  that  they  were  very  like 
a  pair  of  children — they  were  so  happy,  so  nat 
ural,  so  innocent  of  guile,  and  obviously  so  fond 
of  one  another. 


[140] 


CHAPTER  XII 

NO  SYSTEM  AT  ALL  TO  THE  HUMAN  SYSTEM 

I  THINK  I'll  tell  you  about  myself.  Maybe 
it's  the  same  way  with  you.  Anyhow,  it's 
a  mighty  queer  thing.  And  we  ought  to  try  to 
get  some  light  on  the  matter — why  there  is,  ap 
parently,  no  reason  or  logic  at  all  about  our  sys 
tems. 

You  see,  I  go  along  a  pretty  fair  amount  of  the 
time  feeling  all  right;  nothing  wrong  with  my 
system;  nothing,  at  any  rate,  that  I  can  notice. 
Everybody  says:  "How  well  you're  looking! 
Great  color,  you've  got."  And  so  on. 

Then,  maybe,  I  see  in  the  paper  that  there  is 
an  epidemic  scheduled  to  devastate  the  city  pretty 
soon.  This  news  lays  hold  of  me  right  off.  The 
paper  goes  on  to  say  that  it  behooves  all  citizens 
to  take  thought  to  fortify  their  systems  against 
the  ravages  of  this  terrible  disease  which  is  rap 
idly  approaching. 

Or  I  read,  say,  that  Thrift  Week  was  such  an 

[141] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

enormous  success  (for  everybody  else)  that  a 
campaign  is  under  way  to  inaugurate  a  Health 
Week,  which  (I  read)  will  greatly  reduce  the 
mortality  in  the  community.  The  way  to  reduce 
my  own  mortality  (I  read  with  considerable  at 
tention)  is  for  me  to  Stop,  Look  and  Listen  in 
the  matter  of  my  health.  And  To  Do  It  Now! 
I  don't  like  those  profane  words,  like  mortality. 
They  disturb  me.  And  occasionally  get  me  into 
110  end  of  trouble — as  you'll  see. 

Or,  perhaps,  I  notice  around  in  cars  and  places 
an  unusual  number  of  advertisements  instructing 
you  what  firm  to  consult  in  order  to  "safeguard 
the  interests  of  your  heirs."  A  died  (one  of 
these  cards  may  say)  and  left  his  estate  to  B,  his 
widow,  naming  C  as  executor.  C  died  suddenly 
shortly  afterward.  B  (the  widow)  met  E,  with 
oil  lands  in  Hawaii— and  so  on.  The  advertise 
ment  winds  up :  Are  you  A? 

Not  yet;  I'm  not!  But  I'd  better  watch  out. 
I  know  this  is  a  good  advertisement  because  it 
gets  into  my  mind  the  way  it  does. 

Or,  again,  perhaps  there  are  just  a  number  of 

little  things  that  I  come  across.     A  gentleman 

one  day  tells  me  at  luncheon,  we'll  say,  that  he 

can't  drink  tea  because  it  gives  him  uric  acid  so 

[142] 


THE  HUMAX  SYSTEM 

bad.     Good  gracious!     And  I  (maybe)  subject 
to  uric  acid! 

An  octogenarian  (we'll  suppose)  is  inter 
viewed.  He  attributes  his  longevity  to  abste 
miousness  in  the  use  of  inexpensive  cigarettes. 
(I  at  once  put  mine  out.) 

A  chemist  (very  likely)  gets  a  lot  of  publicity 
by  declaring  that  you  are  to  Look  Before  You 
Leap  in  the  matter  of  drinking  water.  (And 
but  the  night  before  I  drank  from  the  spout  in 
the  kitchen!)  And  so  on.  Well,  things  such 
as  these  set  one  to  thinking. 

I  say  to  myself  when  I  get  that  way  (to  think 
ing,  I  mean)  a  stitch  in  time  saves  nine;  there's 
no  loss  so  bad  as  the  loss  of  your  health,  because 
if  you  have  that  you  can  obtain  aught  else;  a 
word  to  the  wise  is  sufficient ;  make  hay  while  the 
sun  shines;  little  drops  of  water  wear  away  the 
stone ;  take  heed  for  the  morrow  while  it  is  yet 
May;  be  not  like  unto  the  foolish  virgin  who 
spilt  the  beans.  And  many  other  things  of  this 
kind,  which  (doubtless  in  wise  measure)  are  both 
good  and  true. 

Well,  in  short,  I  determine  to  "build  up,"  to 
get  myself  in  thoroughly  "good  shape." 

I  swear  off  smoking.     I  put  away  the  home 

[143] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

brew.  I  do  not  eat  fresh  bread.  I  procure  my 
self  overshoes  against  the  rain.  I  rise  with  the 
lark.  I  (religiously  eating  an  apple  first)  go  to 
bed  betimes.  I  walk  so  many  miles  a  day — also 
skip  a  rope.  I  shun  all  delicacies  of  the  table. 
I  take  those  horrid  extra  cold  baths,  for  the  cir 
culation.  I  do  "deep  breathing."  I  "relax"  for 
twelve  minutes  each  day.  I  shun  the  death-deal 
ing  demon  "worry."  I  "fix  my  mind  on  cheerful 
thoughts."  I  "take  up  a  hobby,"  philately,  or 
something  like  that.  I  eat  the  skins  of  potatoes. 
I  watch  the  thermometer  at  the  office,  and  mon 
key  continually  with  the  steam  radiator.  Every 
thing  like  that. 

When  you  undertake  a  thing  (even  if  it's  only 
shelling  peas)  be  thorough  in  it,  that's  my  motto. 
I  don't,  indeed,  in  this  regimen  get  much  work 
done,  but  it's  better  to  be  slow  and  sure. 

Well,  what  happens? 

When  I  set  out  to  build  up  this  is  what  happens 
to  me :  First  thing,  maybe,  I  get  pimples.  No ; 
no  maybe  about  it.  I  sure  get  pimples.  Then, 
very  likely,  I  get  a  carbuncle.  ( I  have  just  asked 
my  assistant  how  you  spell  that  word.  She  in 
quires  if  I  mean  the  gem,  or — or  the  other.  I 
have  told  her  I  mean  the  other.) 
[144] 


THE  HUMAN  SYSTEM 

Next,  very  probably,  I  "contract"  (as  they 
say)  a  cough.  This  cough  "develops"  into  a 
cold.  .  .  .  You  have  (I  trust)  had  that  sort  of 
cold  which  hangs  on  for  months.  Nothing  rec 
ommended  is  of  any  help  to  you.  You  become 
resigned  (more  or  less)  to  the  idea — just  as  a 
man  who  has  lost  a  leg  (or  his  mind)  must  re 
solve  to  do  the  best  he  can  with  the  rest  of  his 
life  without  his  leg  (or  his  mind),  so  must  you 
adapt  yourself  to  the  stern  condition  imposed 
by  Fate  of  always  having  a  cold.  That's  the 
kind  of  a  cold  I  mean  that  I  get.  ( Only  worse ! ) 

My  cold  branches  out  into  several  little  side 
lines,  such  as  acute  neuralgia  and  inflammatory 
rheumatism.  Stiff  joints  impede  my  agility  in 
getting  down  the  hill  to  my  morning  train  to 
the  city.  I  slip  on  the  ice  and  break  my  glasses. 

Not  having  my  glasses  causes  me  at  the  office 
to  greet  Mr.  Sloover  as  Mr.  Rundle,  and  this  sort 
of  error  breathes  a  chill  upon  the  nice  nuances  of 
business. 

Or  in  my  personal  correspondence  (if  I  were 
that  kind  of  a  person)  I  might  put  my  letter  for 
Penelope  into  the  envelope  for  Pauline.  This, 
when  I  had  discovered  the  calamity,  would  doubt 
less  perturb  my  thoughts.  My  thoughts  being 

[145] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

perturbed,  I  might  walk  out  of  the  restaurant 
without  my  change  of  three  dollars  and  eighty 
cents.  Thoroughly  upset  by  now,  I  walk  under 
a  ladder.  Realizing  that  I  have  done  this,  my 
nervousness  is  the  occasion  of  my  dropping  my 
watch.  Enough!  I  recognize  that  there  is  no 
use  in  my  going  back  to  the  office  that  afternoon. 
I  telephone  in  that  I  have  gone  home  to  bed 
with  my  cold. 

On  coming  out  of  the  cigar  store  where  the 
telephone  booth  is,  I  see  Christopher  Morley, 
Don  Marquis  and  Franklin  P.  Adams  walking 
down  the  street  arm  in  arm.  ( I  can  see  very  lit 
tle  without  my  glasses,  but  well  enough  to  recog 
nize  such  a  spectacle  as  that. )  Something,  I  say, 
must  be  on.  And  I  cheer  up  considerably. 
Some  cheering  up  certainly  is  just  what  I  need. 
I  overhaul  the  company.  And  I  ask  it  (the  com 
pany)  where  it  is  bound.  It  says:  "For  'Mecca/ 
Come  along."  Don  hands  me  a  pocket  flask 
(largely  empty),  Chris  presents  me  with  a  large 
green  cigar,  and  Frank  gives  me  a  match.  It  is 
agreed  that  we  roll  a  little  pool  for  a  few  hours 
while  waiting  for  the  cab. 

Well,  you  see,  I've  been  led  to  abandon  the 
[146] 


THE  HUMAN  SYSTEM 

idea  of  building  up  my  health — but  I  don't  care, 
one  may  as  well  die  happy. 

I  have  a  great  time  at  that  show.  (My  cold  is 
immensely  better.)  I  fix  on  one  eye-glass  so 
as  to  see  something  desirable.  And  I  cut  up  a 
lot. 

But — when  we  turn  to  leave  I  discover  the 
president  of  my  company  going  out  just  ahead 
of  me.  Well,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  take  what  is 
coming  to  me  tomorrow. 

That  one  good  meal,  anyhow  (after  the  pool), 
has  strengthened  my  spirit  immensely.  I  plan 
to  have  a  regular,  genuine  breakfast  in  the  morn 
ing.  The  kind  I  used  to  enjoy  before  I  started 
in  to  get  myself  in  fine  shape.  A  breakfast  of 
sliced  pineapple,  eggs,  steak,  fried  potatoes,  cot 
tage-cheese,  hot  rolls,  and  two  pots  of  good  strong 
coffee.  A  pipe  afterward. 

When  I  get  out  to  the  house  I  find  that  my 
uncle  (from  whom  I  had  been  estranged  for 
years)  has  died,  and  left  me  his  fine,  ninety  carat, 
forty  jewel,  repeater  watch. 

I  wake  up  bursting  with  joyous  life.  The  girl 
tells  me  that  those  especially  handsome  glasses 
I  lost  last  New  Year's  Eve  have  been  found. 
Down  at  the  station  the  station-master  comes  out 

[147] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

to  greet  me.  He  says  so  many  people  have 
slipped  on  our  hill  that  next  week  the  railroad  is 
going  to  install  a  free  coach  service.  I  see  by 
the  morning  paper  that  the  horse  I  took  a  twelve 
to  one  shot  on  in  the  Buenos  Aires  derby  came  out 
the  length  of  the  stretch  to  the  good.  On  the 
train  into  town  I  smoke  a  couple  of  packages 
of  cigarettes — as  I  become  a  bit  bothered  about 
the  situation  at  the  office. 

A  girder,  or  something,  had  fallen  across  the 
track.  The  train  is  held  up.  For  a  couple  of 
hours  it  stands  there.  I  become  more  than  de 
cidedly  nervous.  Now  this  is  awful  bad  doings. 
Everything  had  been  coming  so  right  again.  It 
seems  as  if  there  is  no  reward  in  this  world  for 
anything.  Here  for  a  whole  month  or  so  I  had 
been  subjecting  myself  to  the  most  rigorous  and 
unpleasant  kind  of  discipline  solely  in  order  to 
make  myself  more  efficient  in  my  work,  and  so 
more  valuable  to  the  house.  Nothing  else.  Then 
by  an  accident  I  am  kept  away  from  the  office 
one  afternoon,  and  this  has  to  go  and  happen  just 
to  keep  me  away  probably  the  whole  of  the  fore 
noon.  Everything  will,  of  course,  be  misunder 
stood  and  misinterpreted.  Instead  of  getting 
just  credit  for  what  I've  done,  I'll  probably  get 
[148] 


THE  HUMAN  SYSTEM 

bounced.  If  anyone  wants  to  have  the  moral  of 
this  story  pointed  out  to  him:  it  is  that  there  is 
not  much  use  in  trying,  you  can  see  that. 

When  I  do  get  to  the  office  my  secretary  is 
in  quite  a  flurry.  She  tells  me  that  Mr.  Equity, 
the  president,  has  been  inquiring  for  me.  In 
fact — she  hesitates — wants  me  to  step  in  to  see 
him  as  soon  as  I  arrive. 

So,  there  you  are! 

Mr.  Equity  (a  most  unusual  thing  in  any  cir 
cumstances)  shakes  my  hand  with  great  cor 
diality.  He  smiles,  not  benignantly  but  rather 
deferentially.  Says  that  he  has  recognized  for 
some  little  time  that  I  have  not  had  a  salary  com 
mensurate  with  my  services.  Times,  however, 
are  not  of  the  best.  Would  I  be  willing  to  con 
tinue  with  the  firm  at — a  pause — well,  double 
my  present  salary?  Everything,  he  adds,  would 
be  made  as  pleasant  for  me  as  possible. 

His  secretary  whispers  to  me  in  an  outer  office : 
"He  has  been  so  flustered.  He  was  scared  you 
weren't  ever  coming  back." 

I  discussed  this  matter  of  the  strange  workings 
of  the  human  system  with  a  friend  of  mine  out 
side  the  office.  "Ah!"  he  said,  "you  didn't  per- 

[149] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

severe  long  enough  in  looking  after  yourself. 
If  you  had  kept  it  up  for  a  year  instead  of  only 
a  month,  you'd  be  a  well  man  today.  And,"  he 
added  seriously,  "a  successful  man,  Itoo." 


[150] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SEEING  THE   "SITUATIONS  WANTED"  SCENE 

WHAT  a  lot  of  things  they  put  in  the 
papers!"  Hilaire  Belloc  observes  some 
where  in  one  of  his  essays.  Indeed,  it  is  so! 

I  fear,  however,  that  one  of  the  features 
"they"  put  in  the  papers  does  not  have  anything 
like  as  popular  a  reading  as  it  deserves  to  have. 
Those  of  the  governing  class,  personages  who 
employ  people,  probably  consult  fragments  of 
this  department  of  the  newspaper  now  and  then. 
But,  it  may  fairly  be  claimed,  nobody  reads,  with 
the  delicious  pleasure  and  the  abundant  profit 
he  might  read,  that  part  of  the  paper  fullest  of 
all  of,  so  to  say,  meat  and  gravy. 

The  story  it  tells  is  probably  the  deepest 
grounding  in  life  to  be  found  in  print.  There 
as  it  stands  in  today's  paper  Shakespeare  (I 
fancy)  could  not  have  written  it,  nor  Balzac,  nor 
Dickens,  nor  Arnold  Bennett,  nor  O.  Henry, 
nor  Sinclair  Lewis.  This  newspaper  feature  is 

[151] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

called  "Situations  Wanted."  It  might  just  as 
accurately  be  called  "The  Human  Scene,"  or 
"The  Heart  of  the  World,"  or  "The  Cry  of  the 
Soul."  Its  tale  is  of  what  all  men  are  seeking 
(and  have  ever  sought),  each  in  his  own  degree, 
and  after  his  fashion — bread,  a  place  in  the  sun, 
a  level  higher  than  that  of  today. 

Let  us,  briefly,  survey  this  Page  of  Life. 

The  most  conspicuous  figure  in  the  vast  and 
motley  throng  is  the  Bold  and  Confident  Man. 
He  that  knows  his  superior  worth  and  does  not 
propose  to  hide  his  light,  he  that  has  the  spirit  to 
attack  the  conqueror.  His  method  is  to  fling  a 
large  and  arresting  headline  across  his  "ad." 
"I  AM  THE  MAN  YOU  WANT!"  he 
begins.  Or,  "PAR-EXCELLENCE,"  he 
announces  in  big  type.  Or,  "Mr.  Busy  Manu 
facturer,"  he  says  in  good  sized  "caps";  in 
smaller  letters  asks:  "Are  you  in  need  of  a  com 
petent  manager?"  If  Mr.  B.  M.  is  in  such  need, 
it  is  squarely  put  up  to  him:  he  "will  do  well  to 
address  X."  To  the  employer  who  hesitates  this 
vital  opportunity  is  lost.  The  ad  says:  "Write 
now — Right  Now!"  Undoubtedly  this  is  the 
horse  to  put  your  money  on;  the  hero  to  marry 
your  daughter  to.  He  will  not  want. 
[152] 


"SITUATIONS  WANTED"  SCENE 

Our  bold,  aggressive  friend  frequently  writes, 
barring  a  bit  of  "bounce,"  an  admirable,  clean- 
cut  account  of  himself.  He  has,  he  declares, 
acted  for  some  of  the  leading  concerns  in  the 
country;  he  has  never  yet  failed  to  give  satisfac 
tion;  every  employer  he  ever  had  will  testify  to 
his  ability  and  character.  He  invites  the  closest 
investigation  of  his  record,  and  he  is  open  for  any 
engagement  where  faithful  work,  absolute  integ 
rity  and  devotion  to  his  employer's  interests  will 
be  productive  of  "a  fair  living  salary."  It  is, 
indeed,  difficult  to  avoid  the  impression  that  this 
man  "has  the  goods." 

Akin  to  him  in  his  method  of  a  bill-board-like 
headline  is  another,  of  whom  one  is  not  so  sure. 
He  does  not  so  much  command  attention  as  seek 
to  beguile  it.  His  particular  "lay"  is  the  Inge 
nious.  Here  is  one  example  of  his  style : 

AN  ADVERTISING  ADVENTURER 

offers  16  years'  experience 

(scarred  by  a  few  notable  defeats  and  a  thorough  knowledge 
edge  of  what  NOT  to  do)  to  a  manufacturer,  for  whom  he 
will  SAVE  more  than  his  wages;  a  bad  man,  who  does  not 
drink,  never  was  out  of  work,  is  married  and  proud  of  it; 
age  32;  would  rather  work  than  eat.  Address:  Alert. 

Then  there  is  the  Challenge  Xot  to  Be  Denied. 
Here  is  a  sample:  "Accountant. — Are  you  one  of 

[153] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

the  progressive  firms?  If  you  are,  you  want 
— "  etc.  Frequently  one  comes  across  the 
Facetious  Advertiser.  He  runs  some  such  head 
line  as  this :  "Editor  for  Rent"  Or  perhaps  he 
says :  "  'Secretarial  Services'  For  Sale."  In  con 
trast  to  him  is  the  advertiser  with  the  Tremulous 
Appeal.  He  may  begin:  "Who  Wants  My 
Services?"  And  go  on  to  say:  "I  am  hard 
worker  and  steady,  and  willing  to  go  anywhere. 
Salary  about  $12  a  week."  Or  perhaps  he  says: 
"Privilege  of  meeting  man  who  can  utilize  my 
services."  Or  maybe  it  is  thus:  "$15  per  Week 
and  an  Opportunity."  Such  a  very  human  ad 
as  this  is  likely  to  continue  somewhat  like  this : 

Can  you  use  a  young  man  of  twenty-one — one  of  really 
serious  purpose?  I  have  had  enough  business  experience 
and  training  to  know  that  to  be  of  help  I  must  do  well 
whatever  I  am  given  to  do.  Of  course  I  am  looking  for  a 
future — but  I  know  that  it  does  not  matter  so  much  what 
I  do  as  how  I  do  it.  Therefore,  I  believe  any  reputable 
business  holds  a  future.  I  am  from  Kansas,  in  New  York 
on  my  own  resources  and  so  must  have  $15  per  week  to 
start.  I  have  a  high  school  education,  and  have  read  a 
great  deal,  and  have  attended  Business  School. 

Next  is  the  Poignant  ad.     The  purest  example 
of  this  which  in  my  studies  I  have  discovered  is 
headed:  "Who  Will  Talk  With  Me?"    A  step 
[154] 


"SITUATIONS  WANTED"  SCENE 

beyond  this  we  come  upon  the  Altogether  Piti 
ful.  I  mean  like  the  one  I  here  copy  out: 

WILL  you  please  find  or  give  office  employment  to  an 
educated,  with  physical  defect,  young  man;  just  a  chance 
to  work  two  weeks  without  salary  desired? 

Akin  to  the  poignant  situation-wanted  advertise 
ment  is  the  Urgent:  " Advertising  Writer,  col 
lege  man  (Princeton) ,  urgently  needs  situation." 
Or :  "Proofreader,  educated  young  man,  requires 
position  immediately"  It  is,  such  is  the  infer 
ence,  defective  philanthropy  in  an  employer  to 
delay.  A  touching  figure,  too  (because  he  does 
not  suspect  that  he  is  a  touching  figure),  is  the 
Cheery  and  Hopeful.  We  have  him  here: 
" Ambitious  young  American  (28)  desires  posi 
tion;  will  try  anything;  moderate  salary  to 
start." 

A  wily  fellow  is  the  Ingratiating  advertiser. 
Sometimes  he  is  a  "Spanish  young  man"  who 
offers  to  work  altogether  without  salary  as 
Spanish  correspondent  in  some  export  house 
"where  he  could  practice  English."  Occasionally 
he  is  a  "copy  writer"  who,  wishing  a  position  with 
an  agency  or  mercantile  firm,  is  "willing  to  dem 
onstrate  ability  for  two  weeks  before  drawing 
salary."  Now  and  then  a  still  more  positive 

[155] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

character  baits  the  hook  with  the  offer  of  gratis 
services.  In  this  morning's  paper  a  stenographer 
releases  the  seductive  declaration  that  "one  trial 
will  demonstrate  my  value  to  you." 

A  role  played  on  the  stage  of  the  "Situations 
Wanted"  page  which  I  have  always  much  ad 
mired  is  that  of  the  Highly  Dignified.  The  Bold 
and  Confident  Man,  the  Ingenious,  the  Tremu 
lous,  the  Poignant,  the  Hopeful,  the  Ingratiat 
ing — the  voices  of  all  these  figures  touch  one  with 
a  sense  of  the  harsh  clash  of  life,  its  trickiness,  its 
vicissitudes,  its  pathos  and  its  tragedy.  But 
"A  Gentleman  of  50,"  who,  "having  a  consider 
able  private  income,  desires  dignified  occupation ; 
salary  unimportant,"  revives  the  poetic  idea  that 
(at  any  rate,  now  and  then)  God's  in  His  heaven 
and  all's  right  with  the  world.  The  highly  dig 
nified  advertiser  certainly  is  a  very  enviable 
character.  It  must  be  very  nice  to  be  able  to  say, 
as  in  this  advertisement  before  us :  "Light  Occu 
pation  of  an  Important  Nature  is  sought  by 
middle-aged  gentleman  capable  of  assuming 
control  and  conducting  any  normal  business 
enterprise." 

A  very  colorful  feature  of  the  "Situations 
Wanted"  page  is  the  interesting  qualifications 
[156] 


"SITUATIONS  WANTED"  SCENE 

frequently  set  forth.  Glancing  at  the  paper  in 
hand  I  find  a  young  man  of  twenty-five  who 
seeks  a  "permanent  position"  with  a  publisher 
recommending  himself  as  being  "affable."  Also 
here  is  a  "refined  gentleman"  who  desires  a 
"compatible"  position  and  lists  among  his  accom 
plishments  skill  in  the  art  of  "tasty  drawing." 
A  "keen  discreet  American"  looking  for  a  job 
with  a  "corporation"  mentions  his  "suave  man 
ners."  A  butler  unemployed  regards  himself  as 
"very  nice,"  A  college  graduate  of  twenty-eight 
who  wants  to  "begin  at  the  bottom"  asserts  that 
he  is  a  "fluent  talker."  A  "young  man  with 
literary  ability"  flings  out  the  intimation  that  he 
"desires  position  where  it  will  be  of  some  use." 
A  dressmaker  states  that  in  her  calling  she  is 
"perfect."  A  clerk  is  "very  smart  at  figures." 
A  nurse  puts  forward  her  asset  as  a  "plain 
writer."  You  are  pleased  to  discover  that  so 
many  people  have  a  "pleasing  personality."  And 
that  among  stenographers  there  are  so  many  who 
may  be  described  (they  say)  as  an  "attractive 
young  girl."  Here  is  one  who  introduces  her 
self  as  both  "prepossessing"  and  "brainy."  A 
"woman  of  education"  who  seeks  occupation  at 
"anything  useful  if  there  is  friendliness"  gives 

[157] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

as  her  leading  characteristic  a  "sense  of  humor." 
Now  and  then  the  recommendations  offered 
somewhat  mystify  me,  as  in  the  advertisement  of 
the  lady,  "age  29,  fine  personality  (widow  of 
P.  M.  of  F.  and  A.  M.)."  Then  there  is  that 
great  company  who  have  but  one  merit  to  dis 
play.  They  may  be  represented  in  the  "Female" 
column  by  the  "Respectable  young  woman" 
who  "wishes  day's  work."  And  in  the  "Male" 
column  by  the  "Sober  man"  who  (simply)  "de 
sires  position."  Sometimes  here  it  is  difficult  to 
determine  the  degree  of  sobriety  maintained,  as 
in  the  frequent  advertisement  of  the  chauffeur 
who  discreetly  states  that  he  is  "temperate." 

In  case  you  should  write  down  your  idea  of 
your  own  "appearance,"  what  would  you  say?  I 
confess  that  such  a  problem  would  puzzle  me.  It 
does  not  puzzle  some.  "Situation  Wanted"  ads 
record  that  there  are  numerous  young  men  of 
"exceptional  appearance."  Though  occasionally 
we  come  upon  a  young  man  of  almost  painful 
conscientiousness  who  feels  that  he  should  not  go 
further  than  to  say  that  he  is  of  "fair  appear 


ance." 


The  queer  dissimilarity  of  human  aspirations 
echoes  through  the  "Situations  Wanted"  page. 
[158] 


"SITUATIONS  WANTED"  SCENE 

Here  is  a  "Gentleman,  excellent  education  and 
personality,  linguist,"  who  wants  a  position  as  a 
companion,  or  "courier,  &c."  A  "Highly  edu 
cated  French  lady  would  gladly  take  a  child  for 
walks  every  day  from  10  to  12."  A  "Lady,  27, 
of  literary  bent  desires  position  as  companion 
around  the  world."  It  is  remarkable,  the  num 
ber  of  persons  there  are  in  the  world  of  "literary" 
tendency.  Remarkable,  too,  how  many  people 
with  an  inclination  to  travel.  Here  is  a  "Cornell 
Graduate"  who  has,  apparently,  no  aversion 
whatever  to  spending  the  winter  in  "a  warm  cli 
mate."  There  are  "Two  young  men,  partners," 
who  "wish  to  join  an  expedition,  any  destina 
tion."  But  there  are  home-keeping  souls,  too, 
A  "Cultured  elderly  man,  neat,"  craves  "house 
hold  duties."  And  so  on. 

What  a  rich  variety  of  characters  throng  the 
populous  scene  of  the  "Situations  Wanted"  page! 
Here,  in  today's  paper,  following  the  advertise 
ment  of  a  "sculptor"  comes  that  of  a  "former 
policeman."  A  "Physician^  practicing  twenty 
years  in  Paris,  speaking  English,  French,  Span 
ish,  German,  Italian,  seeking  situation,"  is  cheek 
by  jowl  with  a  "Plumber,  good  all  round  man." 
A  young  man  who  has  "put  9  years  at  sea  as  stew- 

[159] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

ard"  nonchalantly  asks  "What  have  you?"  A 
"Former  College  Professor,  30,  seeks  field  of 
occupation  in  advertising."  And  a  "Cavalry 
man,  excellent  record,  wishes  position  at  any 
thing."  A  "Cultured  Visiting  Governess  of 
good  family,  social  position,  trains  ladies,  Eng 
lish,  grammar,  literature,  elegant  correspond 
ence,  art  of  conversation,  current  events,  social 
etiquette."  A  remarkable  "gentleman"  presents 
himself  as  "qualified  to  do  most  anything."  And 
a  "Christian,  age  38,"  wishes  a  position  as  "man 
ager  of  a  laundry." 

A  strategic  device  frequently  employed  by  the 
humble  is  that  of  getting  someone  whose  position 
has  weight  to  present  them.  For  instance,  "Rev. 
Dr.  Moffett  recommends  a  colored  man  for  jani 
tor  of  a  loft  building."  And  numerous  are  the 
gentlemen  who,  laying  up  their  cars,  are  inter 
ested  in  placing  their  chauffeurs  elsewhere. 

"Boy"  is  perhaps  the  word  which  dominates 
the  page.  Most  boys,  apparently,  are  not  partic 
ular  in  their  choice  of  a  calling.  They  are  "will 
ing  to  do  anything."  Now  and  then  one  declares 
that  he  is  a  "good  fighter,"  or  something  like 
that.  Here  is  one  who  demands  a  "position 
where  mental  ability  will  be  necessary."  Here 
[160] 


"SITUATIONS  WANTED"  SCENE 


is  another  who  is  very  specific,  thus:  "15%  years 
old,  5  feet  8^4  inches  tall." 

Sometimes  one  meets  a  very  extraordinary 
character  in  these  columns.  The  other  day  no 
less  a  distinguished  person  than  this  put  in  an  ad  : 

I  am  compelled,  through  severe  strain,  to  discontinue  my 
work  (involving  the  mental  faculties)  with  which  I  have 
puzzled  the  scientific  world  for  several  years,  and  which 
has  netted  me  a  weekly  income  of  over  $200;  I  have  no 
other  source  for  a  livelihood  and  consequently  appeal  to  the 
business  world  for  an  opportunity  to  grow  up  in  a  new 
endeavor.  WHY  NOT  MEET  ME  AND  TALK  IT  OVER? 

A  genuinely  touching  ad,  sensible  and  obvi 
ously  quite  sincere,  in  which  you  hear  the  appeal 
ing  voice  of  a  fellow  being  in  trouble,  but  an  ad 
which  I  fear  is  rather  futile,  is  one  like  this  : 

AM  43  years  old;  defective  hearing  prevents  continuation 
of  salesman's  career;  I  want  situation  where  this  impair 
ment  does  not  prevent  satisfactory  discharge  of  required 
duties. 

A  great,  and  a  grave,  lesson  may  be  learned 
from  the  "Situations  Wanted"  page.  And  that 
is  to  be  found  mainly  in  the  section  where  the  first 
word  of  each  advertisement  is  simply  "MAN." 
Men  there  are  in  it  of  every  age.  I  mean  in  con 
sidering  the  plight  of  the  world  one  should  pon 
der  that  great  army  whose  business  is  "any 
thing." 

[161] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LITERARY  LIVES 

MY  God!"  exclaimed  the  old  lady  in  the  rail 
way    carriage    to    Mr.    Le    Gallienne, 
"Tennyson  is  dead!" 

Have  not  many  of  us  as  we  have  turned  the 
daily  papers  these  last  several  years  frequently 
experienced  the  sensations  of  this  dear  old  lady? 
Whistler,  Swinburne,  Meredith,  Henry  James, 
Howells.  They  are  dead.  Walt  Whitman 
(wasn't  it?),  when  he  heard  that  Carlyle  was 
dead,  went  out,  and  looked  up  at  the  stars,  and 
said  he  didn't  believe  it. 

We  have  been  stirred  to  these  emotional  reflec 
tions  by  chancing  to  come  early  this  afternoon 
in  the  Main  Reading  Room  of  the  New  York 
Public  Library  upon  what  would  commonly  be 
called  a  well-known  book  of  reference.  We  had 
no  intention  of  doing  more  than  peer  into  it. 
Night  found  us  there — the  book  still  open 
before  us. 
[162] 


LITERARY  LIVES 

The  excellent  Solomon  Eagle  (otherwise 
known  as  J.  C.  Squire),  in  one  of  his  delight 
fully  gossipy,  though  erudite,  papers  contributed 
to  Tlie  New  Statesman  of  London  (collected, 
many  of  them,  into  a  volume,  bearing  the  title 
"Books  in  General"),  remarks  of  works  of  refer 
ence  that  they  "are  extremely  useful;  but  they 
resemble  Virgil's  Hell  in  that  they  are  easy 
things  to  get  into  and  very  difficult  to  escape 
from."  He  continues: 

Take  the  Encyclopaedia.  I  imagine  that  my  experience 
with  it  is  universal.  I  have  only  to  dip  my  toe  into  this 
tempting  morass  and  down  I  am  sucked,  limbs,  trunk  and 
all,  to  remain  embedded  until  sleep  or  a  visitor  comes  to 
haul  me  out.  A  man  will  read  things  in  the  Encyclopaedia 
that  he  would  never  dream  of  looking  at  elsewhere — things 
in  which  normally  he  does  not  take  the  faintest  interest.  .  .  . 

"Who's  Who"  takes  me  in  the  same  way.  Ordinarily  I 
have  no  particular  thirst  for  it.  I  should  not  dream  of 
carrying  it  about  in  my  waistcoat  pocket  for  perusal  on 
the  Underground  Railway.  But  once  I  have  allowed  myself 
to  open  it,  I  am  a  slave  to  it  for  hours.  This  has  just  hap 
pened  to  me  with  the  new  volume,  upon  which  I  have 
wasted  a  valuable  afternoon.  I  began  by  looking  up  a 
man's  address;  I  then  read  the  compressed  life-story  of 
the  gentleman  next  above  him  (a  major-general),  wonder 
ing,  somewhat  idly,  whether  they  read  of  each  other's  per 
formances  and  whether  either  of  them  resented  the  posses 
sion  by  the  other  of  a  similar,  and  unusual,  surname.  Then 
I  was  in  the  thick  of  it. 

Even  so.  But  an  afternoon  spent  in  reading, 
straight  along,  the  work  of  reference  we  have  in 

[163] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

mind  could  not  be  called  wasted.  Indeed,  quite 
the  contrary;  such  an  afternoon  could  be  noth 
ing  less  than  one  of  those  spiritual  experiences 
which  suddenly  give  a  measure  of  growth  to  the 
soul. 

The  work  which  we  came  upon,  in  the  circum 
stances  indicated,  was  "The  Dictionary  of 
National  Biography";  and  the  volumes  which, 
by  chance,  we  took  down  were  Volumes  II.  and 
III.  of  the  Second  Supplement  of  the  Diction 
ary.  They  contain,  these  volumes,  memoirs  of 
1,135  noteworthy  English  persons  dying  between 
January  22,  1901,  and  December  31, 1911.  The 
alphabet  extends  from  John  Faed,  artist,  to 
George,  Lord  Young,  Scottish  Judge.  The 
contributors  number  357 ;  the  list  of  these  names 
is  a  roll  of  the  most  distinguished,  in  all  depart 
ments,  in  the  English  Nation  of  our  day.  This 
publication,  we  should  say,  is  the  most  interesting 
to  English-speaking  people,  as  in  all  probability 
it  is  the  most  important,  generally,  issued  within 
at  any  rate  the  year  of  its  publication.  And 
though  we  cannot  rid  ourselves  of  a  melancholy 
feeling  in  contemplating  this  survey  of  the  great 
stream  of  brilliant  life  ended,  we  feel  there  is 
more  good  reading  for  the  money  in  these  pages 
[164] 


LITERARY  LIVES 

than  in  any  other  book  one  is  likely  to  come  across 
at  random. 

The  toll  these  ten  years  have  taken!  The 
chronicle  is  here  of  some  born  to  greatness,  like 
Queen  Victoria;  of  those,  like  Cecil  Rhodes,  who 
have  achieved  it.  And  the  stories  are  told  of 
some  whom  the  world's  fame  found  but  within 
the  last  hour,  then  dead :  John  Millington  Synge 
(contributed  by  John  Masefield),  and  Francis 
Thompson  (by  Everard  Meynell). 

The  proportion  of  biographies  of  men  of  let 
ters  predominates  in  considerable  measure. 
Science  follows  in  the  list,  then  art.  The  least 
but  one,  sport,  is  the  law.  Among  the  names  of 
women,  forty-six  in  number,  are  Florence 
Nightingale,  Kate  Greenaway,  Charlotte  Mary 
Yonge,  and  Mrs.  Craigie  (John  Oliver  Hobbes). 

Three  illustrious  lives  entered  the  twentieth 
century  in  England  as  full  of  years  as  of  honors. 
Meredith,  Whistler,  and  Swinburne  were  born 
in  the  Spring  of  the  nineteenth  century,  in  1828, 
1834,  and  1837  respectively,  and  the  bloom  of 
their  days  was  with  the  giants,  now  legends,  of 
the  Victorian  reign.  The  Kings  in  the  history  of 
art  and  letters  have  been — have  they  not? — gal 
lant  men.  We  suspect  that  it  takes  a  gallant  man 

[165] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

to  be  a  King  in  these  callings.  Of  these  three — 
two  wished  to  be  soldiers — the  most  gallant  spirit 
was  the  great-grandson  of  a  rather  grand  tailor. 

He  won  what  men  can  and  he  bore  what  men 
must,  is  some  ancient  line. 

The  most  extensive  article  in  these  volumes  is 
the  "Meredith,"  by  Thomas  Seceombe.  It  is  the 
richest.  Twelve  pages  is  its  compass.  As  a 
biography  we  are  disposed  to  rank  it  with — let's 
see?— Froude's  "Carlyle"  (4  vols.  8vo.).  Per 
haps,  on  the  whole,  it  is  better.  To  go  into  any 
detail  in  our  notice  of  the  appearance  of  these 
books,  and  maintain  any  perspective,  would  carry 
us  to  a  vast  length.  The  bibiographer  is  deeply 
impressed  with  the  character  of  Meredith,  as  a 
man,  throughout  his  life,  of  noble  aspect.  His 
critical  verdict  reduced  to  one  word  is:  "Thor 
oughly  tonic  in  quality,  his  writings  are  [as  Lamb 
said  of  Shakespeare]  essentially  manly."  This 
is  one  of  the  pictures  which  most  brightly  sticks 
in  our  head : 

On  the  terrace  in  front  of  the  chalet,  whence  he 
descended  to  meals,  he  was  often  to  be  heard  carrying  on 
dialogues  with  his  characters,  and  singing  with  unrestrained 
voice.  Whimsical  and  sometimes  Rabelaisian  fabrications 
accompanied  the  process  of  quickening  the  blood  by  a  spin 
[a  favorite  word  with  him]  over  Surrey  hills.  Then  he 

[166] 


LITERARY  LIVES 

wrote  his  master  works,  .  .  .  and  welcomed  his  friends, 
often  reading  aloud  to  them  in  magnificent  recitative,  un 
published  prose  or  verse. 

If  there  is  anything  upon  which  an  article  could 
be  "based"  not  included  in  Mr.  Seccombe's  list 
of  sources,  it's  a  queer  thing. 

The  "Swinburne"  is  furnished  by  Edmund 
Gosse,  whose  adequate  equipment  for  the  task 
includes  "personal  recollections  extending  over 
more  than  forty  years."  Passages  of  his  por 
trait  of  the  radiant  poet  are  the  most  colorful  in 
these  volumes  of  the  Dictionary.  By  way  of 
critical  discussion  the  writer  says:  "It  is  a  very 
remarkable  circumstance,  which  must  be  omitted 
in  no  outline  of  his  intellectual  life,  that  his 
opinions,  on  politics,  on  literature,  on  art,  on  life 
itself,  were  formed  in  boyhood,  and  that  though 
he  expanded  he  scarcely  advanced  in  any  single 
direction  after  he  was  twenty.  If  growth  had 
continued  as  it  began,  he  must  have  been  the 
prodigy  of  the  world.  Even  his  art  was  at  its 
height  when  he  was  five  and  twenty."  The  Whis 
tler  article  is  by  Sir  Walter  Armstrong  (who 
writes  also  on  Holman  Hunt)  and  is,  one  feels, 
the  most  judicial  summary  that  has  appeared  on 
the  most  controversial  subject,  one  can  readily 

[167] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

recall,  of  the  epoch  closed.  A  very  clear  state 
ment  of  a  principle  of  the  art  of  painting  is  this : 
"For  years  his  work  bore  much  the  same  relation 
to  Japanese  art  as  all  fine  painting  does  to  nature. 
He  took  from  Japanese  ideals  the  beauties  he 
admired,  and  re-created  them  as  expressions  of 
his  own  personality." 

There  is  one  delightful  anecdote,  in  E.  V. 
Lucas's  sketch  of  Phil  May.  His  Punch  edi 
tor,  Sir  Francis  Burnand,  tells  a  story  to  the  ef 
fect  that  on  being  asked  at  a  club  for  a  loan  of 
fifty  pounds,  May  produced  all  he  had — half  that 
amount — and  then  abstained  from  the  club  for 
some  time  for  fear  of  meeting  the  borrower,  be 
cause  he  felt  that  "he  still  owed  him  twenty-five 
pounds." 

Sensible  persons  will  read  with  satisfaction  the 
just  article  by  T.  F.  Henderson  on  that  fine 
figure  Henley,  "one  of  the  main  supports,"  said 
Meredith,  "of  good  literature  in  our  time." 
Many  good  folks  will  like  to  look  up  Leslie  Ste 
phen,  the  first  editor  of  this  Dictionary,  "who  en 
joyed  the  affectionate  admiration  of  his  most 
enlightened  contemporaries."  The  article  is  by 
the  present  editor,  Sir  Sidney  Lee.  ^Estheti- 
cally  minded  persons  may  read  about  William 
[168] 


LITERARY  LIVES 

Sharpe.  Among  the  painters  are  Watts  (biog 
rapher,  Sir  Sidney  Colvin)  and  Orchardson. 
The  "Seymour  Haden"  is  furnished  by  A.  M. 
Hind.  Memoirs  of  Sir  Henry  Irving,  Sir  The 
odore  Martin,  and  Herbert  Spencer  come  in  this 
supplement.  And  so  on.  A  piece  of  American 
history  is  related  here,  too,  in  the  account  of 
Edward  Lawrence  Godkin,  founder  of  The 
Nation. 

A  subject  of  emotional  literary  controversy 
at  the  present  moment  is  treated  by  Thomas  Sec- 
combe  in  his  article  on  George  Gissing.  The  gen 
eral  qualities  of  the  Dictionary  may  be  clearly 
observed  in  this  notice.  When  the  first  volume  of 
this  second  supplement — A  to  Evans — was  is 
sued  not  long  ago  rumors  reached  us  of  some 
agitation  occasioned  in  England  by  the  unepi- 
taphical  character  of  the  memoirs  of  Edward 
VII.  Well,  discrimination  was  not  made  against 
a  King.  The  frankness  of  this  high  tribunal  in 
its  calm  recital  of  facts  is  striking. 

After  some  steady  reading  of  the  great  Dic 
tionary  we  wonder  if  printed  forms  had  been 
sent  to  the  contributors,  upon  which  they  com 
posed,  in  answer  to  the  questions  there,  their 
articles :  the  order  of  progress  of  all  the  memoirs 

[169] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

is,  in  effect,  so  uniform.  Each  says  at  (it  ap 
peared)  about  the  same  point:  His  appearance 
was  this.  Each  seems  to  conclude  with  a  list  of 
the  portraits. 

And  this  idea  recalled  to  us  a  story.  A  for 
eigner  entering  our  country's  gates,  upon  being 
asked  to  fill  out  papers  setting  forth  his  na 
tionality,  age,  color,  and  so  on,  wrote  beside  the 
query,  "Business?"— "Rotten."  In  this  intelli 
gent  interpretation  of  the  question,  the  "busi 
ness"  of  many  whose  lives  are  recorded  in  honor 
here  was  "rotten"  for  many  a  long  year. 

The  story  of  literature  has  not  ceased  to  be  a 
sorry  story;  still,  as  was  said  on  a  time,  com 
parable  to  the  annals  of  Newgate.  A  tale  it  con 
tinues,  in  a  large  measure,  of  outcast  experience, 
of  destitution,  "seeking  a  few  pence  by  selling 
matches  or  newspapers,"  or  development  through 
suffering,  of  hospital  sojourns,  of  contemplated 
suicide,  of  unfortunate  "amorous  propensities," 
of  "ill-considered"  marriage,  of  that  immemorial 
"besetting  weakness,"  of  "a  curious  inability  to 
do  the  sane,  secure  thing  in  the  ordinary  af 
fairs  of  life,"  of  "ordering  his  life  with  extreme 
carelessness  in  financial  matters,"  of  the  weari 
ness  of  reward  for  work  of  high  character  long 
[170] 


LITERARY  LIVES 

deferred,  of  charitable  legacies  "from  a  great- 
aunt." 

Mr.  Wells  speaks  somewhere  of  the  amazing 
persistency  of  the  instinct  for  self-expression. 
Where  it  exists,  one  reflects  in  musing  on  these 
biographies,  you  can't  kill  it  with  a  club. 

Very  imposing  we  felt  the  literary  style  of 
this  Dictionary  to  be.  It  treats  of  a  man  much  as 
if  he  were  a  word,  say,  in  the  Century  Dictionary. 
This  is  the  sort  of  biographical  writing,  we  said, 
that  a  man  with  whiskers  can  read.  It  does 
sound  something  like  a  court  calendar.  Its  tone 
is  omniscient,  indeed.  But  the  Recording  Angel 
here  does  not  drop  a  tear  upon  the  oath  of  any 
Uncle  Toby  and  blot  it  out  forever.  No.  He 
says,  of  one  we  tremble  to  name,  "his  language 
was  often  beyond  the  reach  of  apology."  Fine 
is  the  dignity  with  which  sordid  things  are 
related.  "The  return  journey  he  was  under  the 
necessity  of  performing  on  foot."  Almost  gro 
tesque  is  the  neglect  of  the  caressing  touch  of 
sentiment.  "His  own  wish  was  to  be  a  jockey." 
The  treatment  of  the  theme  of  love  is  entertain 
ing.  "At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  married." 

August  is  the  passivity  in  the  presence  of  the 
Reaper  who  mows  the  golden  grain.  Without 

[171] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

poetry,  oh,  Death,  where  is  thy  sting!  In  these 
volumes,  of  none  is  it  sighed:  At  twilight  his 
spirit  fled.  Had  he  but  lived  i  .  .  !  It  is:  He 
died  December  14,  1908.  He  left  no  issue.  A 
fair  portrait  of  him  by  Charles  Ricketts  is  in  the 
possession  of  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse. 

We  arose  after  several  hours'  reading  with  a 
sense  of  having  perused  for  a  space  two  recent 
volumes  of  the  Book  of  Judgment.  We  were 
full  of  emotion.  We  felt  the  mystery  of  the 
destiny  of  man.  How  admirable  he  is  and  how 
pitiful!  Throbbing,  we  went  forth  into  the 
throbbing  city. 


[172] 


CHAPTER  XV 

SO  VERY  THEATRICAL 

THERE  is  a  young  woman  I  thought  of 
taking  there  for  luncheon  the  other  day, 
but  when  I  called  for  her  it  did  not  seem  to  me 
that  she  had  used  her  lip-stick  that  morning — 
and  so  we  went  somewhere  else. 

She  is  pretty  good-looking  and  was  dressed 
not  at  all  unfashionably.  She  would  have  done 
all  right  at  the  Waldorf,  or  at  the  Vanderbilt, 
or  Biltmore,  or  Ritz-Carlton,  or  Ambassador. 
Indeed,  I  don't  know  but  that  at  some  such  place 
as  that  I  should  have  been  rather  proud  of  her. 

But,  you  see,  for  the  place  I  had  in  mind  her 
skirt  was  a  little  too  long — it  came  almost  half 
way  to  her  ankles.  Her  bosom  was  quite  covered. 
She  moves  with  fair  grace,  but  without  striking 
sinuousness.  And  I  suddenly  recollected  that 
she  does  not  smoke  much. 

No;  I  saved  myself  just  in  time;  I  should 
have  been  chagrined,  embarrassed,  most  decid- 

[173] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

edly  uncomfortable;  she  would  have  been  con 
spicuous.  I  should  probably  have  lost  caste 
with  the  waiters,  too;  and  not  again  have  been 
able  to  get  a  table  after  the  plush  rope  had  been 
thrown  across  the  entrance  to  the  dining-room; 
which,  so  keen  is  competition  for  places  there, 
is  shortly  before  one  o'clock. 

If  you  know  where  this  place  is,  why,  of  course, 
all  right.  But  nobody  has  any  business  to  go 
shouting  all  over  the  housetops  exactly  where  it 
is.  People  who  aren't  just  naturally  by  temper 
ament  a  part  of  the  picture  oughtn't  to  know  how 
to  find  it.  Though  it  is  a  perfectly  good  bet  that 
bunches  of  them  would  like  to  know. 

But  that's  just  the  way  so  many  of  these 
havens  of  the  elect  get  ruined.  A  lot  of  curious 
"visitors"  go  piling  in  right  along;  the  scene  soon 
loses  all  its  authenticity;  and  shortly  becomes 
bogus  altogether.  Why,  I  can  remember  when 
artists — painters  and  writers — lived  in  Green 
wich  Village.  There,  in  those  days  .  .  .  But 
all  that  was  years  ago. 

This  much  only  will  I  tell  you  about  the  loca 
tion  of  the  most  distingue  place  there  is  in  which 
to  have  luncheon.  The  centre  of  the  inhabited 
world  is,  of  course,  Longacre  Square,  that 
[174] 


SO  VERY  THEATRICAL 

widened  curving  stretch  of  Broadway  looking 
north  several  blocks  from  the  narrow  stern  of 
the  gracefully  towering  Times  Building,  rising 
from  its  site  of  a  bit  of  an  island  surrounded  by 
four  surging  currents  of  traffic.  A  few  miles 
away  (from  Longacre  Square)  the  provinces 
begin.  But  there,  the  most  gleaming  spot  on 
this  our  globe  under  the  canopy  of  the  purple 
night,  is  the  quintessence,  the  apex  of  human  life. 
...  I  am  here  speaking,  of  course,  in  the  spirit 
of  those  of  that  nomad  race  whose  hopes  for  gold 
and  fame  lie  through  the  "stage  entrance" — I 
mean  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  theatre. 

To  the  east  just  off  Longacre  Square  along 
the  crosstown  streets  is  a  medley  of  offices  of 
divers  theatrical  and  screen  journals,  chop- 
houses,  and  innumerable  band-box  hotels  whose 
names  doubtless  only  a  district  messenger  boy 
could  recite  in  any  number.  The  particular  one 
for  which  we  are  headed  is  famous  enough  to 
those  familiar  with  fame  of  this  character.  Here 
the  "Uncle  Jack"  of  the  American  stage,  Mr. 
Drew,  for  some  time  made  his  residence.  It  is 
always  the  stopping  place  in  New  York  of  per 
haps  the  finest  of  our  novelists,  Joseph  Herges- 
heimer.  That  mystical  Indian  gentleman,  Mr. 

[175] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

Rabindranath  Tagore,  has  found  it  a  not  unwor 
thy  tent  on  his  western  pilgrimages.  And  so  on. 

You  cannot  be  long  in  its  rich  little  lobby 
without  overhearing  struck  the  high  note  of  its 
distinctive  clientele.  "Where  do  you  open?" 
asks  someone  of  someone  else.  And  the  answer 
is  not  unlikely  to  be :  "At  Stamford.  When  do 
you  close?"  In  the  subdued  light  bare  satin  arms 
and  enspiriting  lengths  of  colorful  stocking  flash 
from  the  deep  chairs  where  feminine  forms  are 
waiting.  A  graceful  hand  opens  a  telephone 
booth  to  expel  a  smoking  cigarette. 

Here  enters  Walter  Prichard  Eaton,  come 
down  from  his  Berkshire  farm  for  the  height  of 
the  theatrical  season.  A  tall,  leisurely,  very 
New  Englandish,  smooth-shaven  young  man, 
now  coming  decidedly  grey  just  over  the  ears. 
Entering  the  dining-room  we  come  plump 
against  our  old  friend  Meredith  Nicholson  lunch 
ing  with  a  bevy  of  friends.  A  youthful  fifty  per 
haps  now,  the  author  of  one  of  the  best  sellers  of 
any  day,  "The  House  of  a  Thousand  Candles." 
Clean-shaven,  with  a  physiognomy  suggesting 
that  of  a  Roman  senator.  What  has  brought  him 
just  now  from  Indiana?  Well,  he  is  revolving 
in  his  mind  the  idea  of  writing  a  new  play,  as 
[176] 


SO  VERY  THEATRICAL 

soon,  he  adds,  as  he  "can  find  the  right  ink." 
Hasn't  been  able  to  get  hold  of  any  that  just 
suited  him. 

But  much  more  important  to  his  mind,  appar 
ently,  than  this  play  is  another  mission  in  which 
he  has  become  involved.  He  is  going  to  have 
himself  "mapped,"  that  is,  have  his  horoscope 
cast.  Yes,  by  one  of  the  ladies  of  his  party,  who, 
it  appears,  is  eminent  as  a  professor  of  this  sci 
ence,  now  rapidly  coming  into  a  period  of  great 
vogue.  When  he  has  supplied  her  with  the  data 
concerning  his  birth  she  will  reveal  to  him  the 
course  of  his  career  through  1922. 

On  a  number  of  the  tables  are  cards  marked 
"Reserved."  Around  two  sides  of  the  room 
upholstered  seats  running  the  length  of  the  wall 
seat  couples  in  greater  intimacy  of  tete-a-tete  side 
by  side  before  their  little  tables.  Most  of  the 
young  women  present — but  could  you  really  call 
many  of  them  young  women?  .  .  .  Their  most 
striking  feature,  after  the  dizziness  of  their 
beauty,  and  the  ravishing  audacity  of  their 
clothes,  is  the  bewitching  tenderness  of  their 
years.  More  than  several  of  these  dainty,  art 
fully  rose-cheeked  smokers  look  to  be  hardly  past 
seventeen.  Their  foppishly  dressed  male  com- 

[177] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

panions  frequently  are  in  effect  far  from  any 
thing  like  such  youth;  and  in  a  number  of  cases 
are  much  more  likely  to  remind  you  of  Bacchus 
than  of  Apollo. 

Two  of  these  misses  nearby  are  discussing  with 
one  another  their  "doorman."  "Isn't  he,"  ex 
claims  one,  "the  very  dearest  old  doorman  you 
have  ever  seen  in  all  of  your  whole  life!"  Yes, 
it  would  seem  that,  peering  down  the  long  vista 
of  the  past,  from  out  of  their  experience  of  hun 
dreds  of  theatres,  neither  of  these  buds  of  wom 
anhood  could  recall  any  doorman  so  "dear"  as 
their  present  one. 

The  dominant  group  in  the  room  is  a  gay  and 
populous  party  about  a  large  round  table  in  the 
centre.  And  undoubtedly  the  dominant  figure 
of  this  party  is,  you  recognize,  Alexander  Wooll- 
cott,  dramatic  critic  of  the  New  York  Times, 
invariably  at*  this  same  table  at  this  same  hour, 
a  very  spirited,  a  very  round  plump  young  man, 
very  dapper  to  the  end  of  every  hair  in  his  trim 
little  black  moustache.  Next  to  him  who  is  that  ? 
Why,  goodness  me!  if  it  isn't  Edna  Ferber,  who, 
though  I  doubt  not  she  would  not  want  to  be 
counted  in  the  fledgling  class  of  some  of  our  sou- 
[178] 


SO  VERY  THEATRICAL 

brette  friends  here,  indeed  does  seem  to  be  getting 
younger  all  the  while. 

Joining  this  party  now  is  an  odd  and  rather 
humorous  looking  figure,  tall,  amusingly  stoop 
ing  and  amusingly  ample  of  girth  for  a  character 
of  such  apparently  early  manhood,  an  intensely 
black  crop  of  hair  and  a  very  blackish  streak  of 
moustache,  soft  collar,  unpressed  clothes.  Sits 
down,  hooping  himself  over  his  plate  with  a  sug 
gestion  of  considerable  shyness.  Gives  you  an 
impression,  perhaps  by  the  brightness  of  his  eyes, 
of  Puckish  mirth  playing  within  his  mind. 
Heywood  Broun. 

At  the  table  on  our  right  we  perceive  a  very 
popular  lady  known  to  us,  Miss  Margaret 
Widdemer,  or,  as  she  now  is,  Mrs.  Robert  Haven 
Schauffler.  Her  general  air  breathing  the  sim 
plicity  of  a  milkmaid  amid  this  scene.  Under 
her  mammoth  floppy  hat  reminding  you  of  an 
early  summer  rose.  She  is  discussing  with  a 
spectacled  person  who  looks  as  if  he  might  have 
something  to  do  with  book  publishing  whether 
her  next  book  should  be  a  light  romance  on  the 
order  of  her  "Wishing-Ring  Man"  and  "Rose 
Garden  Husband"  or  she  should  come  into  the 

[179] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

new  movement  of  serious  "Main  Street"  kind  of 
realism. 

And  there,  on  our  left,  certainly  is  a  publisher, 
Mr.  Liveright  of  the  firm  of  Boni  and  Liveright. 
Young  fellow,  thirty-five  perhaps.  Maybe  he  is 
talking  about  some  of  his  striking  successes, 
such  as  "Potterism"  and  "From  Mayfair  to 
Moscow."  With  him  Ludwig  Lewisohn,  literary 
and  dramatic  critic. 

Back  of  us  we  detect  young  Burton  Rascoe, 
former  literary  editor  of  the  Chicago  Tribune, 
newly  arrived  in  New  York  as  managing  editor 
of  McC all's  Magazine,  and  to  whom  (by  the 
way)  the  suppressed  novel  "Jurgen"  was  dedi 
cated.  You  wouldn't  think  anybody  would  be 
so  frowning  as  to  want  to  suppress  Mr.  Rascoe. 
He  looks  as  if  he  might  be  twin  brother  to  any 
dewy  bud  here. 

Who  is  that  he  is  with?  Theodore  Maynard, 
I  declare.  Young  English  poet,  critic  and  novel 
ist.  And  the  other  side  of  him  is  a  gentleman, 
Oliver  Say  lor  by  name,  who  at  the  height  of  the 
revolution  went  to  Russia  to  study  the  Russian 
drama,  and  engrossed  in  aesthetics  lived  for  a 
time  in  quarters  midway  between  the  contending 
military  forces.  Beyond  we  see  a  young  lady 
[180] 


SO  VERY  THEATRICAL 

recently  come  on  from  Ted  Shawn's  song  and 
dance  studio  in  Los  Angeles. 

And  yonder  you  see  a  young  man  who  is  just 
as  dear  and  sweet  as  he  can  be.  He  served  his 
country  during  the  war  by  knitting  a  sweater 
and  a  "helmet"  for  a  poet  he  knew  in  the  army 
in  France.  He,  this  dainty  youth,  looks  pretty 
much  lip-sticked  himself.  In  order  not  to  sin 
against  daintiness  this  young  person  has  a  habit 
of  powdering  his  nose.  A  coarse  friend  of  his 
forbade  his  doing  this,  and  the  next  time  he  met 
him  neatly  powdered  rebuked  him  for  it. 
Whereupon  the  young  man  replied:  "Oh!  You 
wouldn't  (would  you?)  let  a  little  powder  come 
between  friends." 

And,  finally,  here  most  happily  we  are  our 
selves. 


[181] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

OUR  STEEPLEJACK   OF   THE  SEVEN  AETS 

THERE  is  a  rather  frisky  looking  apart 
ment  house  there  now,  a  pastry  shop  and 
tea  room  occupying  the  ground  floor — behind  it, 
the  other  side  of  a  venerable  brick  wall,  a  tiny, 
ancient  burying  ground.  But  in  days  of  yester 
year  here  stood  a  tavern  of  renown,  the  Old 
Grape  Vine,  which  on  this  site,  Sixth  Avenue  at 
Eleventh  Street,  had  given  cheer  since  Sixth 
Avenue  was  little  more  than  a  country  road.  A 
sagging,  soiled  white,  two-story  frame  structure, 
with  great  iron  grill  lamps  before  the  door. 
Within,  the  main  room  was  somewhat  reminis 
cent  of  London's  Olde  Cheshire  Cheese. 

The  proprietor  was  a  canny  Scot,  one  Mac- 
Clellan.  ("Old  Mac"!  Whither  has  he  gone?) 
I  was  coming  along  by  there  the  other  day,  and 
I  asked  a  man  with  whom  I  chanced  to  walk  if 
he  remembered  the  Old  Grape  Vine.  "Ah!  yes;" 
he  said;  "they  had  mutton  pies  there."  They 
[182] 


STEEPLEJACK  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

did.  And  excellent  ale,  also,  served  in  battered 
pewter  mugs.  "They"  had  here,  too  (some  fif 
teen  years  ago),  excellent  society  beneath  the 
dingy  light.  Roaring,  roistering  George  Luks 
(as  he  was  then)  very  much  to  the  fore.  At  the 
rickety  mahogany  table  where  Frans-Halsian 
George  held  forth  frequently  was  to  be  found 
the  painter  William  J.  Glackens  and  his  brother 
"Lew,"  humorous  draughtsman  for  Puck. 
Ernest  Lawson  sometimes  came  in.  A  Mr. 
Zinzig,  a  very  pleasant  soul  and  an  excellent 
pianist  and  teacher  of  the  piano,  often  was  of 
the  company.  A  Mr.  FitzGerald,  art  critic  in 
those  days  of  the  Sun,  sometimes  "sat  in."  And 
a  delightful  old  cock,  Mr.  Stephenson,  art  critic 
then  of  the  Evening  Post.  Among  the  most 
devoted  habitues  of  the  place  was  an  old-school 
United  States  army  officer  turned  writer  of  mili 
tary  stories.  (When  the  proceedings  had  pro 
gressed  to  a  certain  stage  of  mellowness  it  was 
his  habit  to  go  home  and  return  directly  arrayed 
in  his  uniform.)  There  was,  too,  a  queer  figure 
of  a  derelict  journalist  associated  with  Town 
Topics.  There  was  an  inoffensive  gentleman  of 
leisure  whose  distinction  was  that  he  was  brother 
to  a  famous  Shakespearean  scholar.  (As  the 

[183] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

hour  grew  late  he  would  begin  to  whistle  softly 
to  himself  through  his  teeth.)  There  was  a 
rotund  being  of  much  reading  who  perpetually 
smoked  a  very  old  pipe  and  who  was  editor  of  a 
tobacco  journal.  There  was  a  man  of  the  sea 
who  continually  told  stories  of  Japan.  (After 
eleven  he  was  somewhat  given  to  singing.) 
There  was  an  illustrator  for  a  tu'penny  maga 
zine,  who  (so  as  to  seem  to  be  a  large  staff) 
signed  a  variety  of  names  to  his  work.  From 
the  land  of  R.  L.  S.,  he.  One  time  while  in  a 
doze  (somewhere  else)  he  was  robbed.  His  com 
ment  upon  his  misfortune  became  a  classic  line. 
It  was:  "By  heaven!  As  long  as  whiskey  is  sold 
to  lose  ten  dollars  is  enough  to  drive  a  Scot  mad !" 
(This  was  long  before  anybody  had  ever  heard 
of  the  now  illustrious  Mr.  Volstead. )  And  many 
more  there  were.  Ah,  me!  ah,  me!  How  the 
picture  has  changed! 

Well,  the  point  of  all  this  (if  it  have  any  point) 
is  that  it  was  in  the  Old  Grape  Vine  (of  tender 
memory)  that  I  first  saw  James  Gibbons  Hune- 
ker.  I  think  that,  in  his  promenades  as  an  im 
pressionist,  he  was  there  but  seldom.  Though  we 
know  that  high  among  the  Seven  Arts  he  rated 
the  fine  art  of  drinking  Pilsner.  The  old  places 
[184] 


STEEPLEJACK  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

of  Martin's  and  Liichow's  (headquarters  on  a 
time  for  the  musical  cognoscenti)  were  ports  of 
call  on  his  rounds;  and  he  moved  freely,  I 
believe,  among  the  places  of  refreshment  along 
the  foreign  quarter  of  lower  Fourth  Avenue. 
At  the  Grape  Vine,  I  understand,  he  was  an 
especial  friend  of  Luks,  and  probably  of  Glack- 
ens  and  Lawson.  And,  though  he  was  a  very 
famous  man,  he  seemed  to  like  the  motley  com 
pany. 

Ten  or  twelve  years  ago  I  was  earning  a  living 
more  honestly  than  perhaps  I  have  been  making 
one  since.  I  was  a  clerk  in  a  book  store — the 
retail  department,  it  happened,  of  the  house 
which  publishes  Mr.  Huneker's  books.  And 
there,  from  my  position  "on  the  floor,"  I  fre 
quently  saw  him  moving  in  and  out.  Moving 
rather  slowly,  with  the  dignity  of  bulk.  A  dis 
tinguished  figure,  quietly  but  quite  neatly 
dressed,  very  erect  in  carriage,  head  held  well 
back,  supporting  his  portliness  with  that  physical 
pride  of  portly  men,  a  physiognomy  of  Rodin- 
esque  modelling — his  cane  a  trim  touch  to  the 
ensemble.  He  was,  I  distinctly  remember,  held 
decidedly  in  regard  by  the  retail  staff  because 
he  was  (what,  by  a  long  shot,  a  good  many 

[185] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

"authors"  were  not)  exceedingly  affable  in  man 
ner  to  us  clerks. 

The  moment  I  have  particularly  in  mind  was 
when  Samuel  Butler's  volume  "The  Way  of  All 
Flesh"  first  appeared  in  an  American  edition. 
We  all  know  all  about  Butler  now.  But,  looking 
back,  it  certainly  is  astonishing  how  innocent 
most  all  of  us  then  were  of  any  knowledge  of  the 
great  author  of  "Erewhon."  Even  so  searching 
a  student  of  literature  as  W.  C.  Brownell  was 
practically  unacquainted  with  Butler.  He  was 
taking  home  a  copy  of  "The  Way  of  All  Flesh" 
to  read.  Mr.  Huneker  was  standing  by.  In 
some  comment  on  the  book  he  remarked  that 
Butler  had  been  a  painter.  "A  painter!"  ex 
claimed  Mr.  Brownell,  in  a  manner  as  though 
wondering  how  it  came  about  he  knew  so  little 
of  the  man.  "But  this,"  said  Mr.  Huneker, 
referring  to  the  novel,  "is  not  his  best  stuff. 
That  is  in  his  note-books."  Brownell:  "And 
where  are  they?"  Huneker:  "In  the  British 
Museum."  Mr.  Brownell  made  a  fluttering 
gesture  (as  though  to  express  that  he  "gave  up") 
toward  Mr.  Huneker:  "He  knows  everything!" 
he  ejaculated. 

We  should,  of  course,  be  surprised  now  that 
[186] 


STEEPLEJACK  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

anybody  did  not  know  that  Butler  had  been  a 
painter.  When,  just  a  short  time  ago,  W. 
Somerset  Maugham  adapted  for  the  purposes 
of  his  sensational  novel  "The  Moon  and  Six 
pence"  the  character  and  career  of  Paul  Gau 
guin,  it  was  in  the  pages  of  Huneker  that  many 
first  looked  for,  and  found,  intelligence  concern 
ing  the  master  of  the  Pont  Aven  school  of  paint 
ing.  Well,  Gauguin  is  now  an  old  story.  And 
Ibsen,  Tolstoy,  Wagner,  Richard  Strauss,  Rim 
baud,  De  Gourmont,  Xietzsche,  -Meredith, 
Henry  James,  William  James,  Bergson, 
Barres,  Anatole  France,  Flaubert,  Lemaitre, 
Huysmans,  Maeterlinck,  Bandelaire,  Stirner, 
Strindberg,  Faguet,  Shaw,  Wilde,  George 
Moore,  Yeats,  Synge,  Schnitzler,  Wederkind, 
Lafargue,  Rodin,  Cezane,  Matisse,  Picasso,  Van 
Gogh,  George  Luks,  that  wondrous  "flock  of 
Unicorns" — they  all  are  old  stories,  too  .  .  . 
now.  But  it  was  our  Steeplejack,  James 
Huneker,  who  was  our  pioneer  watcher  of  the 
skies.  And  what  in  the  large  sweep  of  his  vision 
of  the  whole  field  of  the  world's  beauty  he  saw, 
he  reported  with  infinite  gusto.  "Gusto,"  as 
H.  L.  Mencken  in  the  Huneker  article  of  his 

[187] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

"Book  of  Prefaces"  says,  "unquenchable,  con 
tagious,  inflammatory." 

The  extent  of  the  personal  contact  which  Mr. 
Huneker  enjoyed  and  maintained  with  the  first- 
rate  literary  men  of  the  world  was  amazing. 
While  I  was  with  the  book  shop  I  speak  of, 
"presentation  copies"  of  each  new  book  of  his, 
to  be  sent  out  "with  the  compliments  of  the 
author,"  were  piled  up  for  forwarding  literally 
several  feet  high.  They  went  to  all  the  great  in 
letters,  in  every  country,  that  you  could  think 
of.  Anatole  France,  Joseph  Conrad,  Henry 
James,  George  Brandes,  Edmund  Gosse,  George 
Moore — people  like  that. 

Vast  was  the  incoming  stream  of  books  to  him, 
presentation  copies,  review  copies,  "publicity" 
copies ;  so  great  a  flood  that  it  was  necessary  for 
him  periodically  to  call  in  an  old  book  man  to 
clear  his  shelves  by  carting  away  a  wagon-load  or 
two  of — genuine  treasure.  A  catalogue  I  one 
time  saw  of  such  volumes  "from  the  library  of 
James  Huneker"  was  sufficient  in  riches  to  have 
been  the  catalogue  of  the  entire  stock  of  a  very 
fair  shop  dealing  in  "association"  volumes,  first 
editions,  and  so  forth.  And  a  survey  of  the  books 
themselves  made  it  quite  apparent  that  a  reader 
[188] 


STEEPLEJACK  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

who  has  read  every  word  that  Huneker  ever 
printed  (and  that  would  be  a  person  who  had 
read  a  good  deal)  may  yet  (very  likely)  be  a 
reader  who  has  not  read  some  of  the  best  of 
Huneker.  I  refer  to  "Jimmie's"  humorous, 
pungent  marginalia. 

Mr.  Huneker's  close  friends  have  taken  occa 
sion  since  his  death  to  speak  warmly  of  his  kind 
ness  toward  obscure,  struggling  talent.  There 
was  a  side  to  him,  akin  to  this,  which  I  have  not 
seen  commented  upon.  Huneker's  fame  as  a 
critic  had  been  for  years  accepted  throughout 
Europe.  When  his  "New  Cosmopolis"  was  pub 
lished  (a  book  I  did  not  myself  think  so  highly 
of)  Joyce  Kilmer,  then  newly  come  to  journal 
ism,  reviewed  it  for  the  New  York  Times,  very 
eulogistically.  Mr.  Huneker  went  to  the  trouble 
of  looking  up  Kilmer  to  thank  him  very  simply 
for  his  praise. 

Mr.  Huneker  was  a  loyal  and  disinterested 
servant  of  good  literature  wherever  he  found  it, 
and  his  happily  was  the  power  to  be  an  ambassa 
dor  to  success.  So  short  a  time  as  about  four 
years  ago  very  few  people  had  heard  of 
William  McFee.  "Aliens,"  his  first  book,  had 
met  with  no  appreciable  success.  The  manuscript 

[189] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

of  "Casuals  of  the  Sea"  (or  the  English 
"sheets"  of  the  book,  I  do  not  recall  which) 
came  into  the  hands  of  a  publishing  house  at 
Garden  City.  A  member  of  the  editorial  staff 
of  this  house  at  this  time  was  Christopher  Mor- 
ley.  And  I  happened  at  the  moment  to  have  a 
job  as  sort  of  handy  man  at  editorial  chores 
around  the  premises.  Morley  immediately  be 
came  a  great  "fan"  for  the  book.  Undoubtedly 
a  fine  book,  and  it  was  accepted,  but  (there  was 
a  question)  could  it  be  "put  across"?  It  was 
very  long,  not  of  obviously  popular  character, 
and  the  author's  name  commanded  no  attention 
at  all. 

The  first  "advance"  copy  of  the  book  sent  out 
went  (at  Morley 's  direction)  to  Mr.  Huneker. 
He  was  then  writing  regularly  critical  articles 
for  something  like  a  half  dozen  publications. 
"Casuals  of  the  Sea"  (such  things  did  not  turn 
up  every  day)  was  a  "find"  for  his  enthusiasm, 
He  "pulled"  two  columns  of  brilliant  Huneker- 
ean  firecrackers  about  it  in  the  New  York  Sun; 
wrote  another  article  of  length  on  the  book  for 
the  New  York  Times;  gave  the  volume  a  couple 
of  paragraphs  of  mention  in  his  department  on 
the  Seven  Arts  at  that  time  running  in  Puck± 
[190] 


STEEPLEJACK  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

and  perhaps  mentioned  the  book  elsewhere  also. 
With  the  weight  of  such  fervor  and  authority 
"Casuals"  was  most  auspiciously  launched.  It 
could  not  now,  by  any  chance,  be  passed  by. 

I  do  not,  of  course,  mean  to  imply  that  there 
was  anything  artificial  or  "manufactured"  about 
the  "vogue"  of  "Casuals."  First,  Mr.  Huneker 
was  not  a  reviewer  but  a  critic,  if  not  thoroughly 
a  great  one,  certainly  a  very  real  one ;  and  about 
the  last  man  going  who  could  be  got  to  "push" 
anything  he  did  not  whole-heartedly  believe  was 
fine.  And  secondly,  "Casuals"  had  "the  goods." 

Through  my  connection  with  the  matter  of 
"Casuals"  I  suppose  it  was  that  a  correspondence 
came  about  between  Mr.  Huneker  and  me.  And 
in  all  my  days  I  have  never  seen  so  energetic  a 
correspondent.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  got  a  let 
ter  from  him  about  every  other  morning.  I 
dropped  out  of  the  publishing  business  and  went 
to  Indiana  for  a  time.  I  let  him  know  when  I 
got  there,  my  motive  in  this  being  mainly  to 
notify  him  that  I  was  out  of  the  publishing  busi 
ness  and  so  was  no  longer  in  a  position  to  give 
any  business  attention  to  letters  relating  to 
books.  But  letters  from  him  continued  to  reach 
me  with  the  same  regularity.  While,  I  hardly 

[191] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

need  say,  I  enjoyed  this  correspondence  enor 
mously,  I  was  decidedly  embarrassed  by  it,  as  I 
could  not  but  keenly  feel  that  I  was  taking  up  his 
time  to  no  purpose.  Still,  of  course,  I  felt  that 
I  should  answer  each  letter  of  his  without  an 
impolite  delay,  and  no  sooner  did  he  get  my  reply 
than  he  answered  back  again.  Gradually,  how 
ever,  we  got  the  thing  slowed  down. 

His  letters  were  prodigal  of  witty  things.  I 
am  afraid  I  have  not  kept  them;  if  so  I  do  not 
know  where  they  are — I  move  about  a  good  deal. 
One  neat  play  of  words  I  remember.  I  do  not 
know  whether  or  not  he  himself  ever  used  it  else 
where.  I  did  use  it  in  a  book,  giving  due  credit 
to  Mr.  Huneker.  I  had  told  him  that  I  was 
going  in  for  writing  on  my  own.  His  comment 
was:  "He  that  lives  by  the  pen  shall  perish  by 
the  pen."  Some  of  his  letters,  I  recall,  were 
signed,  "Jim,  the  Penman." 

And  it  was  no  simple  trick  to  read  them.  He 
used  a  pale  ink.  The  handwriting  was  small, 
curious,  and  to  me  almost  illegible.  Why  com 
positors  did  not  mob  him  I  do  not  know.  He 
wrote  everything  by  hand ;  never  would  learn  to 
use  a  typewriter,  and  declared  that  he  could  not 
acquire  the  faculty  of  dictation. 
[192] 


STEEPLEJACK  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

This  leads  me  to  the  story  of  one  of  the  arti 
cles  he  contributed  to  The  Bookman.  When, 
upon  my  return  to  New  York,  I  became  (for 
a  time)  editor  of  this  magazine  I  pursued  him 
for  contributions.  Yes,  later  on  he  would  send 
us  something,  but  always  it  was  later  on,  later 
on.  I  had  about  given  up  hope  of  ever  getting 
anything  from  him  when  a  bulky  wad  of  closely- 
written  "copy"  on  yellow  paper  arrived.  Ex 
pecting  that  it  would  take  me  a  couple  of  days 
to  decipher  the  manuscript,  I  joyously  acknowl 
edged  receipt  of  it  at  once,  without  a  thought  of 
questioning  the  nature  of  the  article.  When  I 
tried  to  read  the  article,  after  I  had  held  the  first 
page  sidewise,  next  upside  down,  then  examined 
it  in  a  mirror,  I  "passed  the  buck"  and  sent  the 
copy  straight  on  to  the  printers.  If  printers 
had  read  him  before  printers  ought  to  be  able  to 
do  so  again.  I  advertised  the  article  to  appear 
in  the  next  number  of  the  magazine.  When  I 
got  the  article  back  in  galley  proofs — I  got  a  jolt. 
It  wasn't  "Bookman  stuff"  at  all,  all  about  a 
couple  of  "old  rounders,"  as  Mr.  Huneker  called 
them,  taking  a  stroll. 

I  do  not  think  that  Mr.  Huneker  has  as  yet 
since  his  death,  to  the  time  these  rambling  re- 

[193] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

marks  are  being  written,  received  anything  like 
adequate  recognition  in  the  press.  The  "obitu 
ary"  articles  in  the  newspapers  have  carried  the 
air  that  he  was  hardly  more  than  an  excellent 
"newspaper  man" — somewhat  older,  but  some 
thing  like  (dare  I  say?)  Hey  wood  Broun  or 
Alexander  Woollcott.  Ah!  no;  James  Huneker 
was  a  critic  and  an  artist,  and  a  figure,  too,  in 
our  national  life.  Though  he  was  all  his  days 
until  almost  his  last  breath  a  hard-working 
journalist  with  an  immediate  "copy  date"  before 
him.  And  though  he  most  naturally  thought  of 
himself,  with  common-sense  pride  in  his  calling, 
as  a  journalist.  I  remember  his  one  time  speak 
ing  of  Arnold  Bennett  as  "a  hard-working 
journalist  as  well  as  a  novel  writer."  Indicating 
his  great  esteem  for  the  character  of  journalist. 
And  he  used  to  speak,  too,  with  fraternal  pride 
and  affection  in  inflection,  of  young  men  who 
had  written  good  books,  as  being  among  "our 
men,"  meaning  associated  with  the  same  paper 
as  himself. 

At  the  remarkable  funeral  service  held  in  the 
new  Town  Hall  in  New  York  high  and  touch 
ing  honor  was  done  his  memory  by  the  stage  and 
the  musical  profession,  but  literature  seemed  to 
[194] 


STEEPLEJACK  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

be  officially  represented  by  the  person  of  Richard 
Le  Gallienne  alone,  and  painting  and  sculpture 
not  at  all.  The  articles  by  Mr.  Huneker's  col 
leagues  among  music  critics  have  seemed  very 
largely  to  claim  him  as  quite  their  own.  True, 
no  doubt,  his  most  penetrating  writing  was  done 
in  the  field  of  musical  criticism.  But,  also, 
Huneker  was  an  evangel  who  belongs  to  the 
Seven  Arts. 

One  thing  should  be  added.  It  is  a  sad  thing, 
but  it  is  of  the  nature  of  life.  A  good  editorial 
in  The  New  Republic  began:  "James  Huneker 
named  one  of  his  best  books  'The  Pathos  of 
Distance.'  In  a  single  day  his  own  figure  is  in 
vested  with  the  memorial  gentleness  there  de 
scribed."  No,  not  altogether  in  a  single  day. 
He  had  already  begun,  and  more  than  begun,  to 
recede  into  the  pathos  of  distance.  His  flair  was 
for  the  championship  and  interpretation  of  the 
"new"  men.  And,  for  the  most  part,  his  new 
men  had  become  old  men.  His  stoutest  admirer 
must  admit  that  Mr.  Huneker's  work  was 
"dated." 

But  where  (and  this  is  sadder  still)  is  his  like 
today? 

[195] 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FOKMEK  TENANT  OF   HIS  ROOM 

THERE  are  certain  things  which  must  be 
done,  to  yield  their  best,  when  one  is  young. 
For  one  thing,  there  is  only  one  time  in  life  to 
run  away  to  sea.  If  you  did  not  run  away  to  sea 
when  you  were  a  lad,  it  is  too  late  now  for  you 
to  get  any  sport  out  of  it.  'Tis  something  the 
same  with  living  in  a  garret  or  in  a  hall  bedroom. 
If  you  did  not  read  "Robinson  Crusoe"  when 
you  were  a  boy  there  is  no  use  for  you  to  read 
it  now;  you  will  not  understand  it.  There  are 
some  other  things  you  can  enjoy  when  you  are 
old — grandchildren,  for  instance.  But  the  time 
to  come  up  to  a  great  city  is  when  one  is  young. 
The  time  to  walk  up  Broadway  at  night,  and  feel 
a  gusto  about  it,  and  Fifth  Avenue  by  day,  is 
when  one  is  young.  That  is  an  enchanted  time, 
when  it  is  a  fine  dashing  thing  to  be  doing,  to  live 
at  a  second-rate  boarding  house;  when  discour 
agement  is  adventure ;  when  it  is  worth  while  even 
[196] 


FORMER  TENANT  OF  HIS  ROOM 

to  be  poor;  when  one  makes  life-long  friends  at 
sight;  when  young  love  is  sipped;  when  courage 
is  ever  stout  in  one's  breast ;  when  one's  illusions 
are  virgin  yet;  and  all's  right  with  the  world. 
At  that  season  one  can  swell  with  a  rich  personal 
pride  in  "Shanley's"  and,  almost  at  the  same 
time,  eat  one's  own  theatre  supper  in  a  "Dairy 
Lunch"  room,  where  every  customer  is  his  own 
waiter  as  well,  and  where  his  table  is  the  broad 
ened  arm  of  his  chair  against  the  wall. 

Richard  Day,  student  at  the  law,  munched  his 
egg  sandwich  (egg  sandwich  was  the  favorite 
dish  at  the  "Dairy  Lunches"  until  eggs  got  so 
high)  and  drank  his  coffee  from  a  cup  that 
remarkably  resembled  in  shape  a  shaving  mug 
and  was  decorated  in  similar  fashion.  The 
blocks  of  sugar  (two  for  Richard)  for  this  stimu 
lating  beverage  (made  out  of  chicory)  were  taken 
by  the  customer  with  his  fingers  from  a  heaping- 
full  sort  of  great  punch-bowl  mounted  on  a  ped 
estal  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  It  was  drawn 
from  a  nickel-plated  engine  with  glass  tubes  by 
a  young  man  in  a  white  coat  like  a  barber's,  who 
served  it,  with  crullers,  piece  of  pie,  or  sandwich, 
across  a  kind  of  little  bar  at  the  rear  end  of  the 
long  room. 

[197] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

Day  scorned  the  packed,  parading  trolley  cars, 
and  swung  vigorously  up  the  street.  Far  up  the 
thoroughfare  an  enormous  electric  sign  (in  its 
size  suggesting  that  it  had  been  somehow  brought 
back  by  Gulliver  from  the  country  of  Brobding- 
nag  and  mounted  here  upon  a  sturdy  little  build 
ing  for  awful  exhibition)  its  gigantic  illuminated 
letters  spelling  "Arthur  Pendennis  Ten  Cent 
Cigar,"  lighted  the  mist  for  blocks  approaching 
it,  and  marked  the  north  boundary  of  the  domin 
ion  for  revelry.  The  sidewalks  were  much 
quieter  now.  One  of  those  birds  of  the  urban 
night  deftly  wheeled  his  vehicle  alongside  our 
pedestrian  and  pulled  his  clattering  quadruped 
violently  back  upon  its  haunches  until  it  slid 
along  the  slippery  pavement.  "Cab,  sir?  Cab?" 
Then  he  whisked  away  again.  It  was  not  long 
before  Richard  had  entered  into  the  district  of 
slumbering  residences,  and  not  much  longer  until 
he  ran  up  the  steps  before  his  own  door,  or,  speak 
ing  more  literally,  his  own  landlady's  door.  It  is 
not  much  to  mount  three  pairs  of  stairs  in  the 
brave  days  when  one  is  twenty-one,  and  Day  was 
in  the  little  room,  where,  rich  only  in  the  glory  of 
his  rising  sun,  in  his  youth,  he  weathered  it  so 
long. 

[198] 


FORMER  TENANT  OF  HIS  ROOM 

This  apartment  was  the  width  of  the  dark 
hall,  which  was  face  t6  face  with  it,  about  four 
teen  feet  long,  and  furnished  in  tune,  so  to  speak. 
An  uncommonly  small,  old-fashioned,  wooden 
bedstead,  a  bantam-size  "dresser,"  a  washstand 
its  shorter  brother,  a  small  table  or  "stand,"  and 
two  half -grown  chairs,  mature  before  their  sea 
son,  were  the  principal  articles  of  furniture.  The 
room  was  heated  by  an  oil  stove  that  had  passed 
the  age  of  vanity  in  one's  appearance;  it  was 
lighted  at  night  by  a  gas-jet,  without  a  globe;  by 
day  through  a  single  window,  which  occupied 
between  a  half  and  a  third  of  the  wall  space  of  the 
front  end  of  the  room,  and  which  balanced  in 
decorative  effect  with  the  door  at  the  other  end. 
A  row  of  books  was  arranged  along  the  dresser 
top  against  the  lower  part  of  the  small  looking- 
glass.  Two  pictures  (the  property  of  Day), 
one  of  Lincoln  and  one  of  Roosevelt  squinting 
in  the  sunlight  (this  is  a  land  where  every  young 
man  may  hope  to  be  President ) ,  were  tacked  on 
the  walls.  In  company  with  these  were  a  com 
bination  calendar  and  fire-insurance  advertise 
ment  and  a  card  displaying  a  lithographed  upper 
part  and  idealistic  legs  of  a  blithe  young  woman 
wearing,  stuck  on,  a  short,  bright  skirt  made  of 

[199] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

sandpaper  and  streaked  with  match-scratches, 
who  in  fancy  letters  was  ingeniously  labelled  "A 
Striking  Girl."  These  bits  of  applied  art  were 
properties  of  Mrs.  Knoll's  establishment. 

Day's  dresser  had  several  small  drawers  and 
a  little  square  door.  He  had  one  day  discovered 
adhering  to  the  back  of  this  door  a  hardened  piece 
of  chewing  gum,  and  from  this  he  had  deduced 
that  a  former  tenant  of  the  room  had  been  a 
woman,  presumably  a  young  one  (for  surely 
there  is  an  age  after  which  one  knows  better). 
He  sometimes  speculated  on  the  subject  of  the 
former  tenant,  and  he  was  of  three  minds  about 
her  vocation.  Sometimes  he  thought  she  had 
been  a  school-teacher,  sometimes  he  thought  an 
art  student,  and  again  a  clerk  in  a  store.  He 
reconstructed  her  as  having  had  red  hair  and 
having  been  a  bit  frowsy.  But  whatever  she  had 
been  she  had  slept  on  a  mighty  hard  little  bed, 
and  he  felt  something  like  a  tenderness  for  her 
on  that  account. 

When  he  had  got  home  from  the  theatre,  Rich 
ard  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  (it  seemed  always 
somehow  the  most  natural  place  in  the  room  to 
sit),  and  smoked  his  pipe.  One  Christmas  Day 
he  and  his  bosom  friend  had  gone  together  and 
[200] 


FORMER  TENANT  OF  HIS  ROOM 

bought  pipes  exactly  alike,  then  each  had  given  his 
to  the  other.  Years  later  Day  was  compelled  to 
give  up  smoking,  and  he  was  never  exactly  the 
same  again.  But  wrhen  he  was  young  the  gods 
blessed  him.  He  smoked  his  pipe  out,  then  he 
slowly  pulled  off  his  shoes.  That  is,  he  pulled  off 
one  shoe  and  sat  abstractedly  a  considerable  while 
with  it  in  his  hand.  He  had  many  thoughts, 
mainly  associated  with  an  unknown  young  lady 
he  had  seen  that  evening  at  the  theatre.  He 
wished  he  had  had  on  a  different  style  of  collar 
—and  he  would  have  had  if  his  laundryman  had 
kept  his  word.  However,  he  thought  rather 
sadly  what  booted  it  to  him  now.  Then  he  roused 
himself,  slowly  undressed,  put  on  his  pajamas 
(his  mother  had  made  them  for  him),  turned 
off  his  light,  pulled  up  his  window  curtain  (so 
the  morning  light  would  waken  him),  and  got 
into  bed. 

Richard  fell  into  a  great  many  adventures  in 
his  night's  sleep.  He  fought  bandits,  with  never 
any  cartridges  in  his  gun;  he  travelled  across 
plains  that  appeared  to  be  constructed  on  the 
principle  of  a  treadmill;  he  visited  sundry  pecu 
liar  places  and  did  divers  queer  things  with  so 
lemnity  and  without  surprise.  After  a  while  it 

[201] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

seemed  to  him  that  he  was  somewhere  talking 
with,  or  rather  to,  the  former  tenant  of  his  room. 
But  the  former  tenant  did  not  have  red  hair; 
her  hair  was  the  loveliest  brown;  nor  was  she 
the  least  bifrjrowzy;  she  was  the  very  opposite 
extreme  to  that.  Nor  clerk  nor  teacher  nor  stu 
dent  was  she.  Shejvvas  a  bright  princess.  Her 
complexion  had  rather  more  of  the  rose  than  of 
the  lily.  Her  pure  and  eloquent  blood  spoke  in 
her  cheeks.  She  and  the  lady  he  had  seen  at  the 
theatre  were  one  and  the  same  person.  He  could 
not  make  out  exactly  how  he  came  to  know  she 
was  the  former  tenant,  but  that  seemed  to  be 
considered  so  very  well  understood  he  felt 
ashamed  to  speak  about  it. 

He  was  saying  to  her  some  of  the  cleverest 
things  he  had  ever  heard.  He  surprised  himself 
as  he  listened  to  himself ;  and  he  was  much  elated ; 
for  if  ever  he  wished  to  speak  well,  now  was  the 
time.  Now  Day  was  really  a  very  clever  fellow, 
as  well  as  a  comely  one  (this  is  only  a  story  of 
his  youth,  but  in  after  life  he  became  a  distin 
guished  man),  and,  like  all  very  clever  fellows, 
he  was  never  perfectly  happy  except  when  his 
talents  were  recognized  and  appreciated.  Here 
[202] 


FORMER  TENANT  OF  HIS  ROOM 

in  his  dream  he  had  come  into  his  own.  It  was 
a  night  to  be  marked  with  a  white  stone.  One  of 
the  things  that  particularly  impressed  him  in  this 
dream  was  his  impression  that  it  was  not  a  dream. 
In  the  morning  it  was  always  colder  in  Day's 
room  than  at  night,  and  always  it  seemed  some 
how  lonesomer.  It  was  bare  then,  and  not  cozy. 
To  come  directly  from  such  an  especially  com 
fortable  dream  into  the  cold,  grey  dawn,  and 
find  one's  window  opaque  with  frost  and  one's 
breath  like  steam  in  the  air,  requires  a  little  time 
for  one  to  adjust  oneself  to  the  transition.  Rich 
ard  lay  a  little  time  generating  courage  to  get 
up.  He  did  not  immediately  shake  off  his  dream 
entirely ;  but  crumbs  of  it  stuck  to  his  mind,  like 
the  last  of  a  fine  cake  on  the  face.  But  it  was  as 
if  his  cake  had  turned  cold  in  the  mouth.  He 
squirmed  in  bed  with  embarrassment  when  he  re 
viewed  those  clever  things,  on  which  he  had  so 
plumed  himself,  that  he  had  said  to  the  former 
tenant.  They  were  so  very  poor  and  flat  that  he 
tried  to  stop  his  mind  against  the  recollection  of 
them.  And  even  the  former  tenant  herself,  as 
she  faded  now  more  into  the  night,  and  he  came 
more  out  into  the  morning,  was  like  Cinderella 

[203] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

as  she  fled  from  the  hall  back  to  her  kitchen. 
But  Richard  caught  up  the  crystal  slipper  that 
remained  to  him  and  in  his  bosom  bore  it  forth 
into  the  day. 


[204] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ONLY  SHE  WAS  THERE 

DIRECTLY  in  the  intense  emphasis  of 
white  light  from  an  arc  lamp  overhead,  and 
standing  about  midway  in  the  long,  dark,  thickly- 
packed  line  of  people  waiting,  was  a  young  man 
decidedly  above  the  middle  stature,  in  a  long 
outer  coat.  He  was  broad  in  the  shoulders, 
formed  in  excellent  proportion,  apparently  in 
about  the  first  or  second  and  twentieth  year  of 
his  age.  His  forehead  was  intelligent,  his  nose 
exceptionally  good,  his  mouth  rather  big  and  lips 
full,  his  chin  round  and  with  a  cleft  in  the  centre. 
His  hair,  chestnut,  moderately  cropped,  discov 
ered,  what  of  it  was  visible  below  his  hat,  a  de 
cided  inclination  to  curl.  He  was  redolent  of 
health  and  the  unmined  masculine  vigor  pertain 
ing  to  his  time  of  life.  As  the  earliest  ancestor 
of  this  kind  of  historical  writing  would  have  said, 
"He  was  one  of  the  handsomest  young  fellows 
that  hath  ever  been  seen";  in  short,  he  was  not 

[205] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

unlike  one  Jones,  Christian-named  Tom.  This 
young  man  was  Richard  Day,  student  of  the  law, 
and  he  had  come  from  his  silent  "furnished  room" 
to  refresh  himself,  at  a  minimum  cost,  at  the  dra 
matic  presentation  of  an  immortal  story  of  love. 

On  the  occasions  when  the  entertainment  to 
be  is  of  a  superior  order,  the  price  of  admission  is 
doubled  or  trebled,  and  the  patrons  of  the  thea 
tre  gallery  are  of  an  exceptional  character. 
They  comprise  school  teachers  in  abundance,  mis 
cellaneous  students,  matinee  girls  driven  high  by 
the  prohibitory  prices  below,  young  clerks,  and  a 
sprinkling  from  the  usual  ranks  of  the  gallery- 
god,  the  better  sort  of  them,  however,  the  more 
wealthy  and  more  aspiring.  The  original  line 
containing  Richard  Day  had  assembled  an  hour 
or  so  before  time,  to  be  on  the  spot  at  the  opening 
of  the  doors  at  a  commendable  production  of 
"Romeo  and  Juliet." 

There  came  a  sudden  jolting,  like  the  coupling 
of  railroad  cars,  then  a  denser  packing  of  the  line, 
a  being  pushed  off  one's  balance  and  being 
pressed  back  into  it  again,  and  slowly,  jerkily, 
the  crowd  began  to  move  forward;  then  swept 
toward  the  entrance.  The  doors  had  been 
opened.  As  the  throng  began  to  move,  a  wom- 
[206] 


ONLY  SHE  WAS  THERE 

an's  voice  rose  near  Day  ejaculating  breathlessly, 
"Oh!  Oh!"  Simultaneously  a  shrill  cry  arose, 
"Oh,  there's  a  sick  lady  here!  a  sick  lady!  Oh, 
please !  Oh,  please !  Won't  you  make  room  for 
a  sick  lady!"  Day  with  all  his  force  made  what 
room  he  could,  conceiving  that  the  thing  desired 
was  to  get  the  stricken  lady  out  in  the  open  as 
quickly  as  possible.  A  little  peaked  woman  in  a 
light  coat  took  instant  advantage  of  the  slight 
breach  then  opened,  impetuously  to  advance  her 
self  in  the  line.  When  the  momentary  gap  had 
closed  again,  piteously  the  crying  was  resumed, 
and  it  continued  at  intervals  almost  the  entire 
distance  to  the  box-office,  though  it  was  in  a 
slightly  different  neighborhood  and  observably 
proceeded  from  exactly  the  point  of  vantage 
gained  by  the  little  peaked  woman ;  who,  it  might 
be  inferred,  was  a  dual  personality,  comprising 
in  the  same  lady  both  a  sick  lady  and  another 
who  was  her  good  Samaritan  and  assumed  the 
care  of  her. 

Nothing  railed  the  crowd  into  a  straight  line  on 
one  side,  though  on  the  other  a  wall  held  them  so. 
The  impatient  crowding  forward  from  the  rear 
convexed  the  outer  edge  of  the  line  of  people, 
much  against  the  will  of  those  persons  who  found 

[207] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

themselves  being  swept  out  of  the  direct  way 
and  felt  the  main  current  surging  past  them. 
What  was  yet  more  agitating  to  these  was  that 
ahead  of  them  an  iron  railing  did  begin,  at  the 
foot  of  some  steps,  fencing  in  a  narrow  approach 
to  the  ticket  office.  If  they  should  be  swept  past 
the  mouth  of  this  lane  on  the  outside,  their  chance 
of  admittance  was  hopeless.  Day  stemmed  the 
swerving  current  himself  by  the  strength  of  his 
body  and  by  a  kind  of  determined  exercise  of 
his  will.  But  he  felt  directly  behind  him  some 
one  less  strong  losing  hold  with  every  step  of  ad 
vance;  then  suddenly  this  despairing  someone, 
realizing  herself  pushed  quite  to  one  side,  with  a 
little  scream,  caught  at  his  crooked  arm ;  which  he 
instantly,  involuntarily  clapped  firmly  against 
him,  hooking  on  in  this  manner  arid  towing  safely 
and  rapidly  along  someone  frailer  than  himself. 
When  they  had  come  to  the  rail  he  saw  that  he 
would  get  in  by  so  narrow  a  margin  himself  that, 
himself  inside,  he  would  then  but  tow  her  along 
outside,  which  of  course  would  be  a  less  than  use 
less  thing  for  her.  So  he  backed  water,  so  to 
speak,  with  all  his  might,  bracing  himself  against 
the  end  of  the  rail,  until  he  had  got  a  little  space 
before  him,  around  into  which  he  drew  her  whom 
[208] 


OXLY  SHE  WAS  THERE 

he  thought  robbed  of  her  place  by  the  frantic 
selfishness  of  the  crowd. 

But  in  doing  this,  it  seemed  he  had  inadvert 
ently  held  back  for  a  moment  the  little  peaked 
woman,  who  was  at  his  inside  elbow.  She,  find 
ing  herself  delayed  for  a  brief  period  almost  at 
the  goal  in  her  desperate  bargain-counter  sort  of 
rush  for  the  ticket-window,  blew  out  into  a  spit 
ting  cat  kind  of  impotent  fury.  "Ain't  you  got 
no  semblance  of  decency  I  you  great  big  brute!" 
she  screamed  in  his  ear.  "Ain't  you  got  no  ideas 
of  gentlemanliness  at  all!  If  I  was  a  man  I'd 
teach  you  some  shame,  tramplin'  on  a  woman,  a 
poor  weak  woman !  a  woman !"  She  fairly  writhed 
with  scorn  at  this  depravity.  Day  attempted  to 
humble  himself  to  her,  for  her  pacification;  but 
another  woman's  getting  in  ahead  of  her  at  that 
instant  drove  her  almost  mad,  and  her  frenzy  in 
terfering  for  the  moment  with  her  articulation 
she  could  only  glare  at  him  with  an  expression 
suggesting  some  kind  of  feline  hydrophobia. 
When  her  breath  returned  more  to  her  command 
she  continued  to  revile  him  as  they  went  along. 
Although  Day  had  done  nothing  to  merit  shame, 
he  squirmed  inwardly  with  something  not  unlike 
that  feeling,  and  he  blessed  the  general  commo- 

[209] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

tion  which  drowned  a  vixen's  voice.  He  felt 
ashamed,  too,  to  be  where  he  was,  though  he  had 
not  thought  of  it  that  way  before ;  he  should  not 
have  brought  himself  into  a  crowd  more  than  half 
of  women. 

His  reflections  became  rather  abstract  and  lev 
elled  themselves  somewhat  against  the  feminine 
temperament  in  general.  He  felt  the  littleness 
of  it  (so  he  saw  it),  the  peevishness  of  it;  its  in 
ability  to  take  punishment  good-naturedly;  its 
incapacity  for  being  a  "good  loser";  its  lack  of 
the  philosophic  character  which  accepts  humor 
ously  discomforts  and  injustice,  real  as  well  as 
imagined ;  its  lack  of  broadness  of  view ;  its  selfish 
lack  of  the  sense  of  fair  play;  its  not-being- 
square-and-above-board  way;  its  sneakiness,  its 
deceitf ulness ;  the  contemptible  devices  that  it 
will  resort  to,  assuming  them  to  be  its  natural 
weapons  against  a  superior  strength,  both  phys 
ical  and  of  the  understanding.  He  knew  that 
in  a  crowd  of  men  if  anyone  of  them  had  had  the 
despicable  disposition  of  this  woman  his  dread  of 
the  hearty,  boisterous  ridicule  of  his  fellow  brutes 
which  would  inevitably  have  followed  his  mean 
ness  would  have  forced  him  to  stifle  his  tempta 
tion  in  silence.  He  knew  that  there  is  no  place 
[210] 


ONLY  SHE  WAS  THERE 

where  one  may  better  learn  to  appreciate  what 
may  be  called  the  good-natured  easy-goingness 
of  the  male  animal  generally  than  in  an  uncom 
fortable  crowd  of  men.  He  thanked  heaven  he 
was  of  the  superior  sex.  When  a  young  man 
thanks  heaven  that  he  is  of  the  superior  sex  it 
may  not  be  uninteresting  to  observe  in  what  man 
ner  he  conducts  himself  subsequently. 

As  fast  as  the  crowd  was  served  with  tickets 
it  ran  up  the  multiplied  flights  of  stairs,  moved  in 
single  file  past  the  ticket-chopper,  then  on  to 
come  out,  high  up,  into  the  vast  bowl  of  the  thea 
tre.  Here  from  one's  seat  the  impression  of  the 
weird,  ship-at-sea  like  effect  of  the  curves  of  the 
galleries,  balconies,  and  tiers  of  boxes,  sweeping 
back  from  the  light  in  front,  dropping  away  from 
the  vaulted  ceiling;  the  impression  of  being  high 
up  close  under  a  great  roof  and  far  from  the 
stage ;  the  impression  of  the  myriads  of  vague  elu 
sive  faces  in  the  half -lit,  thick,  scintillating  at 
mosphere  of  the  hot,  crowded  place;  the  impres 
sion  of  the  playhouse  scheme  of  decoration,  red 
walls  and  tinsel  in  the  dusk,  cream  color  and  tin 
sel  bas-relief  in  the  highly  artificial  yellow  light, 
casting  purplest  shadows,  and  the  heroic  mural 
paintings  in  blue  and  yellow  and  green,  the  sense 

[211] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

of  the  infinite  moving  particles  of  the  throng;  the 
sense  of  its  all  facing  one  way,  of  the  low  hum 
of  it,  and  of  its  respiration — all  this  is  stuff  that 
puts  one  in  the  mood  for  a  play.  The  keen  ac 
tualities  fade  and  become  the  shadows;  sense  of 
one's  own  life  and  vanity  and  disappointment 
slips  away;  one  is  to  enjoy  a  transmigration  of 
soul  for  a  brief  time.  "Now  for  the  play!" 
thought  Richard. 

A  man  was  climbing  up  the  steps  of  the  aisle, 
some  distance  away,  flinging  an  inadequate  num 
ber  of  fluttering  programs  into  the  crowd.  None 
fell  in  Day's  neighborhood,  to  the  indignant  con 
sternation  of  all  there.  A  chorus  of  exclamatory 
sighs  went  up  from  a  feminine  flock  just  settled 
at  his  right,  all  faces  following  the  disappointing 
program  distributor.  A  stocky  young  man  at 
Day's  left  hand  arose,  and  clambering  out  be 
tween  the  parallel  two  rows  of  seats,  occupants 
getting  on  their  feet  to  allow  him  passage,  started 
after  the  disappearing  man  of  programs. 

A  full-throated  feminine  voice  burst  almost  in 
Day's  right  ear:  "Oh,  please  tell  him  to  get  one 
for  us!"  Day  lunged  after  the  stocky  young 
man,  reaching  for  his  coat-tails,  and  cried  out, 
"Hey  there!  Hey!  Fellow!  Hold  on!"  until 
[212] 


ONLY  SHE  WAS  THERE 

it  was  quite  hopeless  to  continue.  The  sea  of 
people  closed  in  between  him  and  his  quest;  the 
stocky  young  man,  his  ears  plugged  with  the  mul 
titude  of  voices,  shook  himself  free  from  the  na- 
row,  clogged  passage,  and  was  gone.  Day  turned 
to  the  owner  of  the  feminine  voice,  "He  will  bring 
a  lot,  I  think;  if  not  I'll  get  you  some,"  he  said. 
And  he  caught  an  elusive  impression  of  cheeks 
precisely  the  color  of  cheeks  that  had  just  been 
smartly  slapped,  suggesting  the  idea  that  if  one 
should  press  one's  finger  against  them  one's  rin 
ger  would  leave  streaks  there  when  taken  away; 
and  he  caught  an  impression  of  eyes  that  were 
like  deep,  brimming  pools  reflecting  lights;  and 
an  impression  of  a  cloud  of  dusky  brown-like  hair 
which  reminded  him  of  a  host  of  rich  autumn 
leaves.  She  of  these  cheeks  and  eyes  and  this 
hair  was,  apparently,  in  a  party  with  two  compan 
ions,  whose  peering  faces  showed  indistinctly  be 
yond  her.  In  one  significance  of  the  word,  she 
might  have  been  called  a  girl,  or  she  was  a  young 
woman,  a  miss,  a  lass,  a  young  lady,  as  you  please ; 
as  were  they  her  companions.  Merry  school 
girl  spirits  lingered  in  them  all,  supplemented 
by  the  grace  and  dawning  dignity  of  young  wom 
anhood.  She  was  at  that  sweet  nosegay  period 

[213] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

when  young  ladies  are  just,  as  it  is  sometimes 
said,  finishing  their  education.  Her  age  was  that 
enchanted  time,  holiest  of  the  female  seasons, 
which  hangs  between  mature  girlhood  and  full 
womanhood.  Day  felt  a  suspicion,  though  with 
out  perceptible  foundation,  that  this  was  the  very 
person  he  had  towed  along  outside. 

The  stocky  young  man  returned  presently, 
showing  an  uncommonly  blunt  face  and  with  the 
programs,  which  proved  sufficient  in  number. 
There  was  an  interval  in  which  to  read  them ;  then 
the  huge  place  fell  suddenly  much  darker,  except 
directly  to  the  fore,  which  burst  into  great  light ; 
the  immense  curtain  majestically  ascended,  and 
the  time  was  that  of  the  quarrels  of  the  houses  of 
Capulet  and  Montague  in  the  sixteenth  century. 
Richard  Day  passed  out  of  his  body  sitting  up 
right  on  the  seat  and  lived  in  this  incarnation  of 
the  master  dramatist. 

But  unwittingly  he  had  inhaled  a  liquor, 
that  was  even  then  feeding  his  blood ;  he  was  even 
then  continuing  to  inhale  it;  it  crept  in  at  the 
pores  of  his  right  side;  it  was  stealing  its  sweet 
breath  about  his  brain.  This  liquor  was  the  mag 
netism  of  a  powerful  pleasant  young  feminine 
presence  near  to  him — too  near.  Too  near  for  a 
[214] 


ONLY  SHE  WAS  THERE 

clean-cut  young  man,  in  his  second  and  twentieth 
year,  redolent  of  health,  with  moderately  cropped 
chestnut  hair  inclined  to  curl,  intelligent  forehead, 
good  nose,  rather  big  mouth,  full  lips,  and  round 
chin  with  a  cleft  in  the  centre — too  near  for  him 
even  to  remain  in  the  hands  of  the  master  dram 
atist.  A  warm  glow  suffused  him.  His  in 
tellectual  perception  of  the  illuminated,  noble 
spectacle  before  him  in  a  frame  of  night  numbed 
in  his  brain  and  he  was  conscious  only  of  the  rich 
sensation  that  circulated  through  him.  Meta 
phorically,  senses  and  emotions  lolled  on  rich  col 
ored  divans,  spread  with  thick  rugs,  in  the  tropi 
cal  atmosphere  of  his  head.  The  magically 
spoken  lines  of  Shakespeare  became  as  so  much 
unfelt,  unrecognized,  distant  sounding  jargon. 
What  he  had  come  to  be  thrilled  by,  as  the  dark, 
breathless  audience  like  a  sea  about  him  was 
thrilled,  was  in  a  moment  nothing  to  him.  And 
yet  he  had  not  touched  her,  nor  again  spoken  with 
her,  nor  glanced  at  her. 
Only  she  was  there! 


[215] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  HUMORIST'S  NOTE-BOOK 

1  ADMIT  that  (though,  indeed,  I  can  claim  a 
very  fair  collection  of  authors  as  acquain 
tances)  I  share  the  popular  interest  in  the  idio 
syncratic  nature  of  the  literary  profession.  I  am 
as  curious  as  to  the  occult  workings  of  the  minds 
of  authors,  the  esoteric  process  by  which  subtle 
insinuations  of  inspiration  are  translated  into 
works  of  literary  art,  as  though  I  had  never  seen 
an  author — off  a  platform.  I  would  read  the 
riddle  of  genius.  I  am  fascinated  by  its  impene 
trable  mysteries.  I  would  explore  the  recesses 
of  the  creative  head. 

Therefore,  in  the  presence  of  the  treasure  of 
such  incalculable  value  which  is  before  me,  I  ex 
perience  tense  intellectual  excitement.  In  the 
thought  of  its  possession  by  myself  I  find  the 
uttermost  felicity.  What  it  is  is  this :  it  is  a  hu 
morous  writer's  note-book. 

I  must  tell  you  the  wonderful  story — how  this 
(216] 


A  HUMORIST'S  NOTE-BOOK 

came  into  my  hands,  and  how,  romantically 
enough,  it  is,  so  to  say,  by  the  bequest  of  the  au 
thor  himself,  your  own  possession.  The  strange 
circumstances  are  as  follows: 

Something  like  a  week  ago  I  received  through 
the  post  at  my  place  of  residence  an  oblong  pack 
age.  It  was  similar  in  shape  to  an  ordinary 
brick ;  not  so  heavy,  and  somewhat  larger.  I  had 
ordered  nothing  from  a  shop,  and  so,  as  the  parcel 
was  plainly  addressed  to  myself,  I  concluded  that 
it  must  contain  a  present.  As  I  am  very  fond 
of  presents,  I  was,  with  much  eagerness,  about 
to  open  the  package,  when  I  suddenly  recollected 
the  newspaper  reports  of  the  recent  dastardly 
Bolshevist  bomb  plots;  the  sending  through  the 
mails,  by  some  apparently  organized  agency,  to 
prominent  persons  in  all  parts  of  the  country 
these  skillfully  disguised  engines  of  death  and  de 
struction.  They  were  outwardly,  I  recalled,  in 
nocent  looking  parcels,  which  when  opened  blew 
housemaids  to  bits,  demolished  dwellings  and,  in 
some  instances,  accomplished  the  murder  of  the 
personage  who  had  incurred  the  enmity  of  the 
criminals. 

I  bounded  some  considerable  distance  away 
from  the  object  before  me.  Though,  after  a  mo- 

[217] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

ment,  I  did,  indeed,  reflect  that  I  was  not  what 
would  probably  be  regarded  as  an  eminent  citi 
zen,  and  had  never  felt  a  sense  of  power  in  the 
government  of  my  country,  I  could  not  dissolve 
a  decided  distaste  toward  my  undoing  this  mys 
terious  parcel.  Also  I  did  not  enjoy  seeing  it 
remain  there  on  my  table.  And,  further,  I  had 
no  inclination  to  carry  it  from  the  room. 

In  this  dilemma  it  occurred  to  me  to  summon 
the  janitor  of  the  apartment  house  where  I  re 
side.  When  I  had  explained  to  him  that,  because 
of  my  having  a  sore  thumb  (which  made  it  pain 
ful  for  me  to  handle  things) ,  I  wished  him  to  open 
this  package  for  me — ,  when  I  had  explained  this 
to  him,  he  told  me  that  he  was  very  much  occupied 
at  the  moment  mending  the  boiler  downstairs, 
and  that  he  must  hasten  to  this  occupation,  other 
wise  the  lower  floors  would  shortly  be  flooded. 
And  he  withdrew  without  further  ceremony. 

I  sat  down  to  consider  the  situation.  I  realized 
that  it  was  a  bothersome  moral  responsibility — 
placing  the  lives  of  others  (even  if  janitors)  in 
jeopardy.  But  something  must  be  done;  and 
done  soon — perhaps  there  was  a  time  fuse  in  this 
thing.  A  thought  came  to  me  (the  buzzer  of 
GUI  dumb-waiter  sounded  at  the  moment) ;  I  de- 
[218] 


A  HUMORIST'S  NOTE-BOOK 

cided  to  go  further  down  the  scale  in  the  value 
of  human  life  to  be  risked.  So  I  communicated 
down  the  shaft  to  our  iceman  (one  Jack)  that 
I  desired  his  presence  in  the  apartment.  Well, 
the  upshot  of  the  matter  is  that  Jack  showed  no 
hesitation  whatever  about  coolly  putting  the 
package  in  a  pail  of  water  and  afterward  un 
doing  it. 

The  parcel  proved  to  be  an  ordinary  cigar-box 
(labelled  outside,  in  the  decorative  fashion  of 
cigar-box  labels,  "Angels  of  Commerce")  ;  within 
was  a  letter  resting  upon  a  note-book,  and  be 
neath  that  the  manuscripts  of  two  short  stories. 
The  submersion  of  the  box  would  have  (most  dis 
astrously)  obliterated,  or  gone  near  to  obliterat 
ing,  the  message  of  the  letter  and  the  writing  in 
the  note-book  and  the  manuscript,  had  not  (hap 
pily)  these  things  been  packed  tightly  into  the 
box  by  surrounding  waste  paper. 

The  letter  was  from  Taffy  Topaz,  known  to 
us  all — a  humorist  if  there  ever  was  one.  I  can 
not  say  that  I  had  been  on  intimate  terms  with 
Mr.  Topaz;  indeed  (to  admit  the  truth)  all  my 
acquaintance  with  authors  is  slight.  I  admire 
authors  so  much  that  it  is  the  joy  of  my  life  to 
be  acceptable  to  them  in  any  degree.  I  put  my- 

[219] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

self  in  their  way  at  every  opportunity.  I  regard 
it  as  a  great  privilege  (as,  certainly,  it  is)  to 
spend  freely  of  my  income  in  entertaining  them 
at  meals.  And  in  this  way  and  that  it  is  that  I 
have  attained  the  honor  of  hobnobbing  with  a 
number  of  writers,  when  they  are  not  otherwise 
engaged. 

As  I  say,  I  had  not  been  on  intimate  terms 
with  Mr.  Topaz;  and  so  I  was  no  little  surprised 
(and,  I  admit,  no  little  flattered)  at  this  decided 
attention  (whatever  it  might  mean)  to  me.  The 
letter  was  not  (oh,  not  at  all!)  a  humorous  letter. 
It  was  a  very  solemn  letter.  It  said  that  Mr. 
Topaz  was  just  about  to  go  to  the  war.  I  was, 
naturally,  puzzled  at  this:  the  war  is  (theoreti 
cally)  over.  I  hunted  round  and  found  a  piece 
of  the  wrapping  paper  which  had  enclosed  the 
box.  On  it  was  the  postmark  (the  paper  had 
dried  somewhat)  ;  and  the  stamp  bore  the  date  of 
October  1,  1917.  I  was  still  more  puzzled  as 
to  where  the  box  could  have  been  all  this  while. 
Then,  I  recollected  the  heroic  labors  of  the  post- 
office  in  maintaining  any  kind  of  a  schedule  of 
delivery  during  the  war.  My  poor  friend's  box 
had  been  goodness  knows  where  all  this  time ! 

The  letter  stated  (as  I  have  said)  that  Mr. 
[220] 


A  HUMORIST'S  NOTE-BOOK 

Topaz  was  about  to  go  to  the  war — as  a  news 
paper  correspondent.  It  said  (oh,  it  almost 
made  one  weep,  so  solemn  was  it!)  that  he  might 
never  return  from  "over  there."  In  case  he  did 
not  come  back  (the  letter  continued),  he  (Mr. 
Topaz)  wished  me  to  undertake  the  charge  of 
placing  the  enclosed  manuscripts  with  some  mag 
azine  or  magazines;  the  money  got  from  them, 
though  it  was  inadequate  he  knew  (so  he  said), 
he  prayed  that  I  would  accept  as  payment  for 
the  advances  which  I  had  made  him  from  time 
to  time.  (Alas !  my  poor  friend,  what  were  those 
miserable  loans  compared  to  the  wealth  of  his  so 
ciety!  How  I  remember  that  proud  day  when 
he  called  me,  so  pal-like,  a  "poor  fish"!)  But 
this  is  not  a  time  to  indulge  one's  grief;  I  must 
press  on  with  my  story. 

The  remainder  of  his  literary  effects,  he  said 
(meaning,  of  course,  the  note-book),  he  desired 
me  (as  he  knew  I  had  some  connection  with  a 
certain  magazine)  to  present  to  the  editor  of  that 
'journal  Little  more  remains  to  be  said  here 
of  Mr.  Topaz  (my  friend).  He  was  not  called 
upon  to  lay  down  his  life  for  his  country  (  or  his 
paper)  ;  after  the  armistice  he  went  valiantly  into 
Germany;  and  there  (as  the  papers  have  re- 

[221] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

ported)  he  contracted  a  marriage;  and  is  little 
likely  again  to  be  seen  in  these  parts. 

The  first  page  of  the  note-book  contains  these 
entries.     It  is  headed 

JOTTINGS 

"Good   name   for   a   small   orphan — Tommy 
Crandle. 

"Fat  person — shrugged  his  stomach. 

"Name  for  a  spendthrift — Charles  Spending. 

"Aphorism — Fear  makes  cowards  of  us  all. 

"Billy  Sparks — Fine  name  for  a  lawyer. 

"Nice  name  for  a  landlady — Mrs.  Baggs. 

"Humorous  Christian  name  for  a  fat  boy — 
Moscow. 

"Name  for  a  clerk — Mr.  Fife. 

"Good  name  for  someone  to  cry  out  on  a  dark 
night— Peter  Clue!     Peter  Clue! 

"Good  name  for  a  sporting  character — Bob 
Paddock. 

"Aphorism — A  fool  and  his  foot  are  soon  in  it. 

"Good  name  for  a  tea  room  in  Greenwich  Vil 
lage—The  Bad  Egg. 

"Epigrammatic    remark — Though    somewhat 
down  in  the  mouth  he  kept  a  stiff  upper  lip." 
******* 

[222] 


A  HUMORIST'S  NOTE-BOOK 

Then  follows  this  on  umbrellas,  evidently  the 
opening  of  an  unwritten  essay: 

And,  like  umbrellas,,  with  their  feathers 
Shield  you  in  all  sorts  of  weathers. 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 

"Among  all  the  ingenious  engines  which  man 
has  contrived  for  his  ornament  and  protection 
none,  certainly,  is  more  richly  idiosyncratic  than 
the  umbrella.  Literary  genius  has  always  in 
stinctively  recognized  this ;  and  doubtless  the  eso 
teric  fact  has  been  vaguely  felt  even  by  the  un 
thinking;  but  it  is  a  profound  truth  which,  I  fear, 
has  had  but  slight  popular  appreciation. 

"The  use  of  this  historic  and  peculiarly  elo 
quent  article  of  personal  property,  the  umbrella, 
illustrates  pictorially  a  proverbial  allusion  to  the 
manifestation  of  intelligence :  it  shows  that  a  man 
has  'sense  enough  to  go  in  out  of  the  rain.'  It 
reveals  not  only  the  profundity  of  his  judgment 
but  the  extraordinary  play  of  his  cleverness,  as 
it  exhibits  him  as  the  only  animal  who  after  crawl 
ing  into  his  hole,  figuratively  speaking,  pulls  his 
hole  in  after  him,  or,  in  other  words,  carries  his 
roof  with  him.  Further  than  this,  in  the  idea  of 
carrying  an  umbrella  you  find  the  secret  of  man's 
striking  success  in  the  world:  the  intrepidity  of 

[223] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

liis  spirit  in  his  tenacious  pursuit  of  his  own  af 
fairs  defies  both  the  black  cloud's  downpour  and 
the  sun's  hot  eye." 

******* 
There  is  this,  headed 

HUMOR 

"There  was  once  a  man  who  was  nearly  dead 
from  a  disease.  One  day  while  taking  the  air 
a  friend  cried  to  him  encouragingly,  'Well,  I  see 
that  you're  up  and  about  again.'  'Yes,'  replied 
the  sick  man  good-naturedly,  'I'm  able  to  walk 
the  length  of  the  block  now.'  This  notion  was 
so  irresistible  that  both  the  quick  and  the  dying 
burst  into  laughter." 


Among  the  longer  entries  in  this  note-book  is 
the  following  remarkable  psychological  study, 
having  as  its  title 

TEMPERAMENT 

"That  morning  Kendle  had  seen  himself  fa 
mous.     As  he  worked  he  began  to  feel  good  in 
his  brain  and  in  his  heart  and  in  his  stomach.     He 
felt  virile,  elated,  full  of  power,  and  strangely 
[224] 


A  HUMORIST'S  NOTE-BOOK 

happy.  The  joy  of  creating  a  thing  of  art  was 
upon  him.  Thrills  ran  down  his  spine  and  into 
his  legs.  As  he  looked  at  his  work  he  admired 
it.  He  knew  that  this  was  good  art.  He  felt 
that  here  was  genius.  He  saw  himself  in  a  de 
lectable  picture,  an  idol  applauded  of  the  multi 
tude,  and  loved  by  it.  For  he  believed  that  the 
multitude  was  born,  and  ate  and  slept,  and  squab 
bled  among  itself,  and  acquired  property,  and 
begot  offspring,  but  to  await  the  arrival  of  genius. 
And  the  only  genius  he  knew  was  genius  in  eccen 
tric  painting.  The  only  genius  worth  while  that 
is,  for  there  is  a  genius  that  invents  labor-saving 
machines,  telephones,  X-rays,  and  so  forth;  but 
nobody  loves  that  genius.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  he  was  a  very  lovable  man,  with  all  his  faults 
(his  faults  were  the  lovable  ones  of  genius),  and 
he  would  soon  have  achieved  a  distinction  that 
would  make  any  woman  proud  of  him.  He  de 
termined  to  renew  his  addresses  to . 

"Somehow  in  the  evening  his  intoxication  had 
died  down.  He  felt  very  sad.  His  work  lay  be 
fore  him  with  so  little  eccentricity  to  it  that  he 
was  ashamed.  His  sense  of  power  had  quite  de 
parted.  And  now  he  dismally  felt  that  he  would 
never  amount  to  anything.  He  was  a  failure. 

[225] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

An  idle,  wicked,  disgraceful  fellow,  no  good  in 
the  world,  and  not  worth  any  woman's  attention. 
His  heart  felt  sick  when  he  thought  this.  He  was 
very  miserable.  He  despised  himself.  So  he 
sighed.  It  would  have  been  better,  he  thought, 
if  he  had  apprenticed  himself  to  the  plumber's 
trade  in  his  boyhood.  He  would  in  that  case 
have  grown  up  happy  and  contented,  remained 
at  home  and  done  his  duty,  respected  by  his  neigh 
bors  and  himself,  though  only  a  plumber.  A 
plumber  is  a  good  honest  man  that  pays  his  debts. 
"At  home!  Why  was  he  not  there,  anyway? 
What  good  was  he  doing  away  from  there? 
There  was  his  mother,  in  her  declining  years. 
Was  his  place  not  by  her  side?  He  would  never 
desert  his  mother,  he  thought.  And  Sis!  there 
was  Sis.  He  would  never  desert  Sis.  How  good 
they  had  been  to  him!  How  they  believed  in 
him!  (he  squirmed)  how  they  believed  in  him 
still.  He  imagined  them  showing  his  most  sen 
sible  pictures  around  to  the  neighbors.  'My  son 
is  an  artist,'  he  heard  his  mother  say.  His  flesh 
crawled.  How  mad  he  had  been!  How  con 
temptible  he  was !  Still  a  man  was  not  hopeless 
who  had  a  soul  for  such  feelings  as  he  had  now. 
He  would  reform.  He  would  henceforth  eschew 
[226] 


A  HUMORIST'S  NOTE-BOOK 

the  company  of  such  as  Walker.  He  enumerated 
his  vices  and  renounced  them  one  by  one.  He 
began  life  over  again.  He  would  bask  in  the 
simple  domestic  pleasures  of  his  mother  in  her 
declining  years,  and  Sis.  He  would  get  up  very 
early  every  morning  and  go  to  his  humble  toil 
before  it  was  quite  light.  He  felt  himself  walk 
ing  along  in  the  chill  of  dawn — the  street  lamps 
still  lit.  He  would  work  hard  all  day.  He 
would  always  tell  the  truth.  Every  Saturday 
night  he  would  come  home  tired  out,  with  fifteen 
dollars  in  his  pocket.  This  he  would  throw  into 
his  mother's  lap.  'Here,  mother/  he  would  say 
in  a  fine  manly  voice,  'here  are  fifteen  dollars.' 
His  mother  would  put  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and 
look  at  him  through  tears  of  pride  and  joy.  He 
would  wear  old  clothes  and  be  very  honest  and 
upright  looking,  the  sort  of  young  man  that  Rus 
sell  Sage  would  have  approved,  that  Sis  might 
dress.  He  would  not  mind  the  sneers  and  gibes 
of  the  world,  for  he  would  be  right. 

"He  looked  defiantly  around  the  room  for  a 
few  sneers  and  gibes." 


[227] 


CHAPTER  XX 


INCLUDING  STUDIES  OF  TRAFFIC  "COPS" 


other  day  it  was  such  a  pleasant  April 
A  day  I  thought  I'd  take  the  afternoon  off. 
It  was  such  a  very  pleasant  day  that  I  didn't 
want  to  go  anywhere  in  particular.  Do  you  ever 
feel  that  way?  I  mean  like  you  just  wanted  to 
be  by  yourself  and  sit  down  and  think  awhile. 

Later  on,  you  have  an  idea,  you'll  come  back 
into  things  much  refreshed.  But  the  thought  of 
answering  these  letters  now,  or  of  doing  this  or 
doing  that,  kind  of  lets  you  down  inside  your 
stomach.  Your  brain  seems  to  have  dropped 
down  somewhere  behind  your  ears.  If  that  fel 
low  across  the  office  comes  over  to  pull  another 
of  his  bright  ideas  on  you  you  think  you'll  prob 
ably  scream,  or  brain  him,  or  something.  He's 
getting  terrible,  anyhow. 

You  have  any  number  of  excellent  friends, 

and    (ordinarily)   you  are  quite  fond  of  them. 

Perhaps  you  will  go  to  see  one  of  them.     There's 

Ed,  you've  been  wanting  for  you  don't  know 

[228] 


STUDIES  OF  TRAFFIC  "COPS" 

how  long  to  go  round  and  see  him.  Never 
seemed  to  have  time.  But  no ;  you  don't  want  to 
see  Ed — today.  Same  way  with  all  the  others, 
as  you  go  over  the  list  of  them  in  your  mind. 
Couldn't  bear  to  see  any  of  'em — not  this  after 
noon.  For  one  thing,  they're  all  so  selfish.  .  .  . 
So  interested  in  their  own  affairs. 

As  I  was  straightening  up  my  desk  an  idea 
came  to  me  about  jobs.  Seems  to  me  that  when 
I  have  a  job  I'm  all  the  while  worrying  about 
how  to  break  out  of  it.  I  think:  Well,  I'm  tied 
up  here  until  the  first  of  the  year;  but  I'll  sure 
shake  it  after  that;  too  cramped  and  limited. 
And  then  when  I  am  out  of  a  job  I  immediately 
begin  to  worry  about  how  to  get  another  one. 
That's  Life,  I  guess. 

I  turned  uptown  and  floated  along  with  the 
current  of  the  Avenue  throng.  It  was  a  glitter 
ing  April  throng.  The  newest  stockings  were 
out.  I  had  not  seen  them  before.  The  newest 
stockings  (you  will  have  noted)  are  so  very,  very 
thin  and  the  pores  (so  to  say)  in  them  are  so 
large  that  they  give  the  ladies  who  wear  them  the 
agreeable  effect  of  being  bare-legged. 

At  Thirty-fourth  Street  the  traffic  policeman 
on  post  at  our  side  of  this  corner,  by  an  outward 

[229] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

gesture  of  his  arms  pressed  back  the  sidewalk 
stream  for  a  couple  of  moments  of  cross-town 
vehicular  traffic.  He  stood  within  a  few  inches 
of  the  front  row  of  the  largely  feminine  crush. 
Whenever  an  impatient  pedestrian  broke  through 
the  line  he  had  formed  and  attempted  to  dart 
across  the  street  he  emitted  a  peculiar  little  whis 
tle  followed  by  the  admonishment,  "Hold  on, 
lady!"  or  "Hey  there,  mister!"  Thus  having  re 
turned  the  derelict  to  cover,  he  would  smile  very 
intimately,  with  a  kind  of  sly  cuteness,  at  the 
more  handsome  young  women  directly  before  him 
— who  invariably  tittered  back  at  him.  And 
thus,  frequently,  a  little  conversation  was  started. 

Now  as  a  vigilant  historian  of  the  social  scene 
this  matter  of  the  gallant  relations  of  traffic  po 
licemen  to  perambulating  ladies  of  somewhat 
fashionable,  even  patrician  aspect,  I  find  highly 
interesting.  It  is  a  subject  which  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  much  examined  into. 

Why,  exactly,  should  flowers  of  debutante- 
Bryn-JVlawr  appearance  look  with  something  like 
tenderness  at  policemen?  Seems  to  me  I  have 
read  now  and  then  in  the  papers  strikingly  ro 
mantic  stories  wherein  a  mounted  policeman  in 
the  park  (formerly  a  cowboy)  saved  the  life  of  an 
[230] 


STUDIES  OF  TRAFFIC  "COPS" 

equestrienne  heiress  on  a  runaway  mount,  and 
was  rewarded  the  next  day  (or  something  like 
that)  with  her  hand.  Such  a  story  my  mind  al 
ways  gladly  accepts  as  one  of  the  dramatic  in 
stances  where  life  artistically  imitates  the  movies. 
Crossing  Thirty-fourth  Street,  however,  seems 
to  me  another  matter. 

And  what  system  of  selection  operates  in  the 
Department  whereby  this  officer  or  that  is  chosen 
from  among  all  his  brethren  for  the  paradisaical 
job  of  being  beau  of  a  fashionable  crossing? 
And  would  you  not  think  that  a  more  uniform 
judgment  would  be  exercised  in  the  election  of 
men  to  such  Brummellian  duties?  Adonises  in 
the  traffic  force  I  have,  indeed,  seen  (there  is 
one  at  Forty-second  Street),  but  this  chap  of 
whom  I  have  just  been  speaking  (the  whimsical 
whistler)  certainly  was  not  one  of  them.  He 
was  what  is  called  "pie-faced."  Hunched  up 
his  shoulders  like  an  owl.  Yet  his  ogling  of 
loveliness  in  new  spring  attire  was  completely 
successful,  was  in  no  instance  that  I  observed 
resented,  was  received  with  arch  merriment.  In 
deed,  his  heavy,  pink-tea  attentions  were  obvious 
ly  regarded  as  quite  flattering  by  the  fair 
recipients!  As  he  let  the  tide  break  to  cross 

[231] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

the  street  it  was  plain,  from  bright  glances  back 
ward,  that  he  had  fluttered  little  hearts  which 
would  smile  upon  him  again.  And  so,  in  such 
a  Romeo-like  manner,  does  this  bulky  sentimen 
talist,  armed  with  concealed  weapons,  have  dal 
liance  with  the  passing  days.  What  you  'spose 
it  is  about  him  gives  him  his  fascination  in  flash 
ing  eyes  haughty  to  the  rest  of  the  masculine 
world — his  bright  buttons,  or  what? 

Yes ;  these  curious  and  romantic  little  relation 
ships  between  traffic  cops  on  social  duty,  so  to 
say,  and  their  dainty  admirers  are  not  (in  some 
instances  at  least)  so  transient  as  to  be  merely 
the  exchange  of  roguish  words  and  soft  glances 
of  the  moment.  There  is  that  really  august  be 
ing  of  matinee-idol  figure  at — well,  let  us  say  at 
Forty-second  Street.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  could 
not  with  more  courtliness  pilot  his  fair  freight 
across  the  Avenue.  So  it  was  the  day  after 
Christmas  I  saw  not  one  but  several  of  his  young 
friends  blushingly  put  dainty  packages  into  his 
hands. 

Is  there  not  an  excellent  O.  Henry  sort  of 
story  in  this  piquant  city  situation? 

Well,  floating  like  a  cork  upon  a  river  I  drifted 
along  up  the  Avenue.  I  passed  a  man  I  had 
[232] 


STUDIES  OF  TRAFFIC  "COPS" 

not  seen  for  several  years.  Yes;  that  certainly 
was  the  fellow  I  used  to  know.  And  yet  he  was 
an  altogether  different  being  now,  too.  The  sort 
of  a  shock  I  got  has  perhaps  also  been  experi 
enced  by  you.  Only  a  short  time  ago,  it  seemed 
to  me,  this  friend  of  mine  had  been  robust  and 
ruddy,  masterful  and  gay,  in  the  prime  of  his 
years.  I  had  somehow  innocently  expected  him 
always  to  be  so.  Just  as  I  find  it  very  unreal 
to  think  of  myself  in  any  other  way  than  I  am 
now.  Don't  you  ?  As  to  yourself,  I  mean.  He 
was  quite  grey.  His  shoulders  hung  forward. 
His  chest  seemed  to  have  fallen  in  on  itself.  His 
legs  moved  back  and  forth  without  ever  alto 
gether  straightening  out.  He  had  a  whipped 
look.  Wrinkled  clothes  and  dusty  black  derby 
hat,  he  was  conspicuous  in  the  peacockean  scene. 
And  yet  on  a  time  he  had  been,  I  knew,  as  much 
a  conqueror  of  hearts  as  any  policeman.  So 
would  it  sometime  be  with  me — like  this? 

What  do  you  know  about  that!  In  the  next 
block  another  acquaintance  of  old  I  saw.  But 
when  I  had  known  him  he  was  stooped  and  little 
and  thin  and  dried  up  and  cringing.  He  worked 
in  a  basement  and  did  not  wear  a  collar,  at  least 
by  day.  He  used  to  look  very  old.  Now  here 

[233] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

he  was  swinging  along  looking  very  much  like 
Mr.  Caruso,  or  some  such  personage  as  that. 

How  may  this  phenomenon  be  accounted  for, 
what  was  the  misfortune  of  one  of  these  persons 
and  the  secret  of  the  other?  I  know  a  man  who 
has  a  theory  which,  at  least,  sounds  all  right.  It 
is  not  buttermilk  nor  monkey  glands,  he  con 
tends,  which  will  keep  a  man  young  and  stalwart 
so  much  as  (what  he  calls)  an  objective  in  life 
— a  distant  rampart  to  take,  a  golden  fleece  to 
pursue.  That  is  why,  he  declares,  scientists  and 
artists  frequently  live  happy  and  alert  to  such 
a  great  age:  Thomas  A.  Edison,  Leonardo  Da 
Vinci  and  the  Jap  chap  (what's  his  name?  Ho- 
kusai)  who  at  a  hundred  and  ten  or  thereabout 
was  called  "the  old  man  mad  about  painting." 

Maybe  it  was  thinking  of  that  idea,  maybe  it 
was  the  fearsome  thought  of  that  dusty  derby 
hat  of  my  friend's  which  haunted  my  mind,  or 
maybe  my  competitive  instincts  had  been  aroused 
from  spring  slumber  by  the  spectacle  of  my 
Caruso-like  friend  careering  along,  anyhow  a  de 
cidedly  bugged-up  feeling  began  to  flow  through 
me ;  I  wavered  in  my  loitering,  I  turned,  my  sails 
r(so  to  speak)  caught  the  wind,  and  I  laid  my 
[234] 


STUDIES  OF  TRAFFIC  "COPS" 

course  abruptly  back  to  the  office.  I  had  sud 
denly  a  great  itch  to  get  at  all  those  letters. 

I  was  very  glad  to  see  that  fellow  across  the 
office  from  me.  He  is  a  good  fellow  and  very 
helpful.  I  said  to  him,  "Look  here,  what  do 
you  think  about  this  idea  for  getting  business?" 

"Oh,  my  goodness!"  he  said;  "it's  altogether 
too  fine  a  day  to  think  about  work.  I'd  just  like 
to  go  out  and  wander  up  the  Avenue  with  noth 
ing  on  my  mind  but  my  hair." 


[235] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THREE  WORDS  ABOUT  LITERATURE 

A  FRIEND  of  mine  (and  aside  from  this 
error  a  very  fine  friend  he  is,  too)  not  long 
ago  published  a  book  which  he  declared,  in  his 
Preface,  should  be  read  in  bed.  He  insisted,  to 
such  an  extent  was  he  the  victim  of  a  remarkable 
and  pernicious  fallacy  which  I  find  here  and  there, 
that  this  book  could  not  otherwise  be  properly 
enjoyed. 

Now  the  difficulty  about  this  particular  book, 
that  is  the  circumstance  wherein  my  friend  has 
got  me  in  a  position  where  it  is  not  so  easy  for  me 
to  overturn  him  all  at  once,  is  this :  one,  not  know 
ing  any  better,  might  take  the  author's  advice, 
and  find  pleasure  reading  the  book  in  bed,  not 
being  aware  that  this  simply  was  because  here 
was  a  book  that  one  would  find  pleasure  in  read 
ing  anywhere.  But  because  you  have  got  hold 
of  a  book  which  it  is  possible  to  enjoy  reading 
in  the  wrong  way,  it  naturally  follows  (does  it 
[236] 


WORDS  ABOUT  LITERATURE 

not?)  that  you'd  enjoy  it  much  more  reading  it 
in  the  right  way.  That,  I  should  say,  was  sim 
ple  and  logical  enough. 

I  know,  I  know!  I'm  coming  to  that:  there 
are  plenty  of  other  people  who  have  this  ridicu 
lous  reading-in-bed  idea.  There,  for  instance,  is 
Richard  Le  Gallienne.  I  had  a  letter  from  him 
awhile  ago,  in  which  he  remarked  that  it  was  his 
practice  to  do  most  of  his  reading  in  bed.  Then 
I  had  a  letter  recently  from  Meredith  Nicholson, 
in  which  there  wras  some  such  absurd  phrase  as 
"going  to  bed  and  reading  until  the  cock  crows.'7 
Also  I  one  time  read  an  essay,  a  very  pleasant 
essay  outside  the  mistaken  notion  of  its  main 
theme,  by  Michael  Monahan,  which  was  largely 
about  the  pleasure  of  reading  in  bed.  Spoke  of 
the  delights  of  being  tucked  in,  with  what  satis 
faction  you  got  the  light  just  right,  and  all  that. 

It  must,  of  course,  be  acknowledged  that  all 
these  gentlemen  are,  if  perverse  in  their  method, 
persons  of  some  reading.  However,  a  fact  such 
as  that,  an  accident  as  you  might  say,  cannot  be 
permitted  to  upset  the  course  of  a  profound  ar 
gument.  Why!  as  to  that,  a  suspicion  just  oc 
curs  to  me  that  maybe  someone  could  dig  up 
Lamb,  Hazlitt,  Mark  Twain,  Coleridge,  Leigh 

[237] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

Hunt,  Cowper  (perhaps  all  of  them,  and  more) 
to  the  effect  that  it  is  pleasant  to  read  in  bed. 
Didn't  Thackeray  have  some  nonsense  about 
"bedside  books"?  I  haven't  time  to  refute  each 
of  these  persons  separately.  It  is  sufficient,  I 
take  it,  to  roll  into  one  point  of  attack  all  this 
bed-reading  heresy,  from  whatever  quarters  it 
comes,  and  put  an  end  to  that. 

Understand  me;  I  have  no  complaint  against 
the  reading  in  bed  of  persons  confined  there 
through  physical  disability.  The  world  war 
which  brought  more  people  to  bed  for  indefinite 
periods  than  any  other  matter  since  time  began 
thereby  probably  got  more  souls  into  the  way  of 
reading  than  seventeen  times  several  hundred 
schools  ever  did.  All  of  them,  however,  would 
find  that  they  were  much  better  off  in  the  matter 
of  reading  when  they  had  got  out  of  bed.  What 
I  say  is  that,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  there  is 
no  use  in  taking  the  air  in  a  wheel-chair  if  you 
can  take  it  on  horseback.  Why  do  a  thing  in  a 
halfway  fashion  when  you  can  go  to  it  right? 

Another  thing.     There  are  people  (I've  seen 

them  at  it)  who  read  on  porches.     Sometimes  in 

swings,  rocking  to  and  fro.     Even  in  hammocks, 

slung  above  the  ground  from  trees.     On  trains, 

[238] 


WORDS  ABOUT  LITERATURE 

too.  I  have  (with  my  own  ears)  heard  people 
say  that  they  would  "take  a  book"  and  go  out 
into  the  park,  or  into  the  woods,  or  out  in  a  boat, 
or  up  on  the  mountain,  or  by  the  sea,  or  any  con 
ceivable  place  except  where  one  should  go  to  read. 

All  of  these  ways  of  reading  are  worse,  if  any 
thing  can  be  worse  than  that,  than  reading  in 
bed.  Because  in  bed  you  do,  at  least,  have  your 
mind  sandwiched  within  doors.  You  do  not  feel 
the  surge  and  rumble  of  the  world — the  sound 
and  movement  of  the  things  of  which  literature  is 
made;  but  any  contact  with  which  (at  the  mo 
ment  of  reading)  is  destructive  to  the  illusion 
which  it  is  the  province  of  literature  to  create. 

For  literature  (reading  it,  I  mean  here)  is,  in 
this,  like  love :  Richest  are  the  returns  to  that  one 
whose  passion  is  most  complete  in  its  surrender. 
And  a  man  lapping  his  frame  in  soft  indolence, 
though  he  have  a  book  in  his  hand,  is  indulging  in 
sensuous  physical  pleasure  at  least  equally  with 
intellectual  receptivity  or  aesthetic  appreciation. 
No.  Reading  should  not  be  taken  as  an  opiate. 

The  way  to  read,  then — but,  a  moment  more ; 
a  couple  of  other  points  are  to  be  cleared  up. 
These  is  much  babble  of  slippers  and  dressing- 

[239] 


TURNS  AEOUT  TOWN 

gowns,  easy  chairs  and  "soft  lights'*  in  connection 
with  the  comments  about  the  pleasures,  the  "de 
lights"  as  I  believe  some  people  say,  of  reading. 

What  is  wanted  to  know  the  relish  to  be  got 
from  reading  is,  first  (of  course),  an  uncommon 
book.  And  by  that  term  is  meant  merely  one 
uncommonly  suited  to  the  spirit  of  the  reader. 
(The  only  perfect  definition,  that,  of  a  "good 
book.")  Some  people  still  read  Stevenson. 
Well,  there's  no  great  harm  in  that.  Providing 
you  read  him  (or  anybody  else)  as  follows: 

You  should  read  as  you  should  die — with  your 
boots  on.  You  take  a  wooden  chair,  without 
arms,  such  (this  is  the  best)  as  is  commonly 
called  a  "kitchen  chair."  It  has  a  good,  hard 
seat.  You  sit  upright  in  this,  crossing  and  re- 
crossing  your  legs  as  they  tire.  Nearby  you  is 
a  good,  strong  light,  one  with  a  tonic  effect,  a 
light  that  keeps  your  eyes  wide  open.  You  sit 
facing  a  dull,  blank  wall.  No  pictures  or  other 
ornaments  or  decorations  should  be  on  this  wall, 
as,  in  case  such  things  are  there,  and  you  happen 
to  raise  your  eyes  for  an  instant,  in  ecstasy  or  in 
thought,  your  vision  lights  upon  one  of  these 
things ;  and  the  heart  which  you  have  given  your 
[240] 


WORDS  ABOUT  LITERATURE 

author  is,  certainly  in  some  measure,  alienated 
from  him.  Maybe,  indeed,  you  go  back  to  him 
almost  at  once.  But  then  harm  has  been  done 
you  have  not  read  with  supreme  abandon. 


[241] 


CHAPTER  XXII 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LANDLADIES 


is  no  figure  in  the  human  scene 
•*•  which  makes  so  unctuous  an  appeal 
to  our  relish  of  humanity  as  the  landlady.  When 
the  landlady  comes  upon  the  stage  at  the  theatre, 
we  all  awaken  to  an  expectation  of  delight  in 
the  characteristic  manifestations  of  her  nature, 
and  seldom  are  disappointed.  The  genius  of  the 
greatest  of  authors  always  unfolds  with  partic 
ular  warmth  in  the  presence  of  their  landladies. 
A  moment's  reflection  will  recall  a  procession  of 
immortal  landladies.  Whether  it  is  that  the  col 
orful  calling  of  landlady  cultivates  in  one  a  pe 
culiar  richness  of  human  nature,  or  whether  land 
ladies  are  born  and  not  made  —  those  with 
characters  of  especial  tang  and  savor  instinc 
tively  adopting  this  occupation,  —  I  cannot  say, 
but  the  fact  is  indisputable  that  landladies  are  not 
as  other  persons  are.  No  one  ever  saw  a  hum- 
[242] 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LANDLADIES 

drum  landlady.     A  commonplace  person  as  a 
landlady  is  unthinkable. 

Now  I  think  I  may  say  that  all  my  life,  or 
nearly  all,  I  have  been  an  eager  and  earnest  stu 
dent  of  landladies.  I  am,  indeed,  much  more 
familiar  with  the  genus  landlady  than  with 
courts  and  kings,  or  with  eminent  personages 
generally  such  as  supply  the  material  for  most 
of  those  who  write  their  recollections.  Thus  I  am 
competent,  I  think,  to  speak  on  a  subject  cu 
riously  neglected  by  the  memorist. 

One  who  makes  a  culture  of  landladies  comes 
in  time  to  have  a  flair  for  these  racy  beings,  and  is 
drawn  by  a  happy  intuition  to  the  habitats  of 
those  most  resplendent  in  the  qualities  of  their 
kind.  Of  course,  one  never  can  tell  what  life 
will  bring  forth,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  my  pres 
ent  landlady  marks  the  top  of  my  career  as  a  con 
noisseur,  an  amateur,  of  landladies.  She  is 
strikingly  reminiscent  of  an  English  landlady. 
And  England,  particularly  London,  is,  as  all  the 
world  knows,  to  the  devotee  of  landladies  what 
Africa  is  to  the  big  game  sportsman — his  para 
dise.  There  the  species  comes  to  luxuriant  flow 
er,  so  that  to  possess  with  the  mind  one  or  two 
well-developed  London  landladies  is  never  to  be 

[243] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

without  food  for  entertainment.  My  present 
landlady,  to  return,  is  of  course  a  widow.  While 
it  may  be,  for  aught  I  know,  that  all  widows  are 
not  landladies,  with  very  few  exceptions  all  land 
ladies  worthy  of  the  name  are  widows.  Those 
who  are  not  widows  outright  are,  as  you  might 
say,  widows  in  a  sense.  That  is,  while  their  hus 
bands  may  accurately  be  spoken  of  as  living,  and 
indeed  are  visible,  they  do  not  exist  in  the  normal 
role  of  husband.  The  commercial  impulses  of 
the  bona-fide  husband  have  died  in  them,  gener 
ally  through  their  attachment  to  alcoholic  liquor, 
and  they  become  satellites,  hewers  of  wood  and 
drawers  of  water,  to  the  genius  awakened  by  cir 
cumstances  in  their  wives. 

I  one  time  had  a  landlady  of  this  origin  in  Nor- 
walk,  Connecticut.  She  was  a  woman  of  angular 
frame,  with  a  face  of  flint,  a  tongue  of  vinegar, 
and  a  heart  of  gold.  This,  I  have  found  in  my 
travels,  is  the  type  of  the  semi-widowed  landlady. 
I  had  another  such  an  identical  one  in  Topeka, 
Kansas.  The  asperity,  doubtless,  is  occasioned 
by  biting  disillusionment  in  the  romance  of  long 
ago,  but  it  is  external;  frost  on  the  window;  at 
the  heart's  core  wells  the  sense  of  universe-em 
bracing  maternity  which  makes  the  character  of 
[244] 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LANDLADIES 

the  landlady  by  vocation  sublime.  All  semi-wid 
owed  landladies  have  (it  is  their  divine  inspira 
tion)  large  families  of  half -grown  sons.  My 
landlady  of  Norwalk  grumbled  continually;  she 
could  be  heard  out  in  the  kitchen  complaining  in  a 
shrill,  querulous  tone  that,  with  things  as  high  as 
they  were,  people  would  be  crazy  to  expect  meat 
twice  a  day.  Yet  she  had  at  her  board  the  mean 
est,  most  low-down,  ornery,  contemptible,  despi 
cable  cuss  in  human  form  I  ever  knew,  and  the 
only  fault  I  ever  heard  her  find  with  him  was  that 
he  didn't  eat  enough. 

The  erudite  in  landladies  have,  of  course,  cog 
nizance  of  a  class  which  are  in  no  degree  widows. 
Those  of  this  department  of  the  race,  however, 
frequently  are  not  landladies  in  fibre,  but  merely 
incidentally.  They  are  young  wives  who  for  a 
transient  period  seek  to  help  out  in  the  domestic 
economy  by  taking  a  few  lodgers  who  come  with 
unexceptionable  references.  As  wives  doubtless 
they  are  meritorious;  but  no  monument  need  be 
erected  to  them  as  landladies.  Though  I  should 
like  to  see  in  the  principal  public  square  of  every 
town  and  city  a  monument  designed  by  an  artist 
of  ability  placed  to  the  enduring  glory  of  the 
landladies  of  that  place.  For  are  not  landladies 

[245] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

ancient  institutions  fostering  the  public  weal, 
and  in  their  field  not  a  whit  less  deserving  of 
homage  than  governors  and  soldiers?  I  would 
say  to  a  nation,  show  me  your  landladies  and  I 
will  tell  you  your  destiny.  I  should  be  remiss, 
however,  in  my  chronicle  did  I  not  note  that  among 
these  partial  and  ephemeral  landladies  occasion 
ally  are  to  be  found  pronounced  landlady  poten 
tialities.  I  recall  a  landlady  I  had  on  Montague 
Street,  Brooklyn  Heights,  whose  passion  for 
cleaning  amounted  to  a  mania.  This  young  per 
son's  housewifery  frenzy  always  put  me  in  mind 
of  another  soul  who  could  not  rest — Hokusai, 
who  at  about  a  hundred  and  ten  was  spoken  of 
as  "the  old  man  mad  about  painting." 

Hovering  about,  tortured  by  a  desire  to  begin, 
when  I  left  for  my  breakfast,  she  was  still  at  it 
upon  my  return  from  my  morning  stroll,  my 
door  barricaded  by  articles  of  dismembered  fur 
niture;  still  at  it  when  I  came  back  a  bit  impa 
tiently  from  a  second  walk ;  still  at  it  while  I  read 
the  paper  in  her  dining-room.  And  so  without 
surcease  throughout  the  march  of  days  and  sea 
sons.  She  unscrewed  the  knobs  of  the  bed  to 
polish  the  threads  thereof ;  she  removed  penpoints 
from  penholders  and  made  them  to  shine  like 
[246] 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LANDLADIES 

burnished  gold.  I  had  another  landlady  moved 
by  the  same  springs  of  feeling,  on  Spruce  Street, 
Philadelphia.  Later,  I  heard,  her  husband  died, 
and  she  espoused  her  latent  career. 

There  is  in  the  galaxy  of  landladies  quite  an 
other  type,  an  exotic  plant  in  the  wondrously 
competent  sisterhood,  specimens  of  which  may  be 
found  blooming  here  and  there  like  some  rare 
orchid.  I  mean  the  fragile,  lady  landlady,  the 
clinging  vine  bereft  of  the  supporting  husband 
oak.  Such  was  Mrs.  Knoll,  of  Central  Avenue, 
Indianapolis,  a  little,  plump,  rounded  body,  ex 
ceedingly  bright,  pleasant,  intelligent,  amiable, 
and  helpless;  all  of  which  qualities  shone  from 
her  very  agreeable  face  and  person.  In  her  youth 
no  doubt  she  was  a  type  of  beauty,  and  she  re 
mained  very  well  preserved.  "Life  and  van 
ity  and  disappointment  had  slipped  away"  (in 
the  Thackerian  words)  from  Dr.  Knoll  some 
years  before ;  and  his  widow  and  only  child,  Miss 
Knoll,  were  left  in  possession  of  the  old  family 
home,  and  nothing  more.  They  could  not  bear 
to  leave  it,  that  would  "break  their  hearts,"  said 
good,  ineffectual  Mrs.  Knoll;  so  it  was  viewed 
by  them,  unfortunately  somewhat  fallaciously, 
in  the  light  of  a  possible  support. 

[247] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

The  Doctor  evidently  was  a  man  of  books,  and 
his  widow  had  sought,  more  and  more,  compan 
ionship  in  reading.  Life — the  actual  world  about 
her,  that  is — ,  and  vanity,  but  not  disappoint 
ment,  had,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  slipped  from 
her,  too.  And  she  had  turned  to  that  great  world 
of  shadows.  "In  books,"  she  said,  "I  can  choose 
my  own  company."  She  had  plighted  her  troth 
in  youth  to  Dickens  and  to  Thackeray,  and  to 
these  she  had  remained  ever  faithful.  In  a  world 
of  false  books  and  unsafe  friends  she  knew  that 
she  had  by  the  hand  two  true  spirits.  Jane  Aus 
ten  she  loaned  me  with  tremulous  pleasure.  And 
she  was  very  fond  of  Mr.  Howells,  with  whom, 
she  said  she  lived  a  great  deal ;  and  the  Kentons, 
the  Laphams,  and  the  Marches,  were  characters 
better  known  to  her  "than  her  next-door  neigh 
bors."  But  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  tender 
perfume  of  Mrs.  Knoll  was  not  altogether  an 
equivalent  in  the  sphere  of  her  passive  efforts  to 
the  homely  vegetable  odor  of  the  authentic  land 
lady. 

In  great  cities,  amid  the  sheen  of  civilization 
is  to  be  found  just  adjacent  to  smart  quarters 
of  the  town  the  tulip  in  the  variegated  garden 
of  landladies — the  finished,  polished  stone  gath- 
[248] 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LANDLADIES 

ered  from  the  mine,  the  bird  of  plumage  of  the 
species;  I  mean,  of  course,  the  landlady 
du  beau  monde,  the  modish  landlady,  or  per 
haps  I  should  say,  the  professional  hostess,  as 
it  were.  For  it  seems  rather  vulgar,  a  thing  re 
pellent  to  the  finer  sensibilities,  to  touch  this  dis 
tinguished  figure  of  immaculate  artificiality  with 
the  plebeian  term  of  "landlady."  The  person 
ages  of  this  type  are,  so  to  say,  of  the  peerage 
of  their  order.  Such  a  Lady  Drew  it  was  whose 
guest  I  became  for  a  time  on  Madison  Avenue, 
Xew  York.  With  silvered  hair  like  a  powdered 
coiffure;  softly  tinted  with  the  delicate  enamel 
of  cosmetic;  rich  and  stately  of  corsage — this 
expensive  and  highly  sophisticated  presence  pre 
sided,  in  the  subdued  tone  of  the  best  society, 
over  the  nicely  adjusted  machinery  of  her  smart 
establishment  by  the  authority  of  a  consciousness 
of  highly  cultivated  efficiency  and  an  aroma  of 
unexceptionable  standards. 

This  consummate  hostess  type  of  landlady  is, 
of  course,  one  which  the  passionate  collector  will 
preserve  in  the  cabinet  of  his  mind  with  tremu 
lous  happiness  in  the  sheer  preciosity  of  it.  I 
cannot  but  feel,  however,  myself,  that  this  type 
fails  of  complete  perfection  as  a  work  of  art  in 

[249] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

this :  that  in  every  work  of  the  first  genius,  it  can 
not  be  denied,  there  is  always  a  strain  of 
coarseness.  And  perhaps  I  should  confess  that 
my  own  taste  in  landladies,  though  I  hope  it  is 
not  undiscriminating,  leans  a  bit  toward  the  pop 
ular  taste,  the  relish  of  the  Rabelaisian. 

Stevenson  has  observed  that  most  men  of  high 
destinies  have  even  high-sounding  names.  And 
anyone  who  has  reflected  at  all  upon  the  phe 
nomenon  of  landladies  must  have  been  struck  by 
the  singularly  idiosyncratic  character  of  their 
names.  Indeed,  an  infallible  way  to  pick  out  a 
competent  landlady  from  an  advertisement  is  by 
her  name.  Is  it  a  happy  name  for  a  landlady? 
Go  there !  As  her  name  is,  so  is  her  nature.  I 
one  time  had  a  landlady  on  Broome  Street,  New 
York,  whom  the  gods  named  Mrs.  Brew.  I  one 
time  had  a  landlady  (in  Milligan  Place,  Man 
hattan)  of  the  name  of  Mrs.  Boggs.  One  time 
I  had  a  landlady  just  off  the  East  India  Dock 
Road,  London,  whose  name  was  Wigger.  I  shall 
always  cherish  the  memory  of  the  landlady  I  had 
down  in  Surrey,  Mrs.  Cheeseman.  One  and  all, 
these  ladies,  as  landladies,  were  without  stain. 

Regarded  as  a  bibelot,  Mrs.  Wigger  was,  I 
think,  of  the  first  perfection.  In  her  own  genre, 
[250] 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LANDLADIES 

so  to  say,  she  was  as  finished,  as  impossible  of 
improvement,  as  an  Elgin  marble,  a  Grecian  urn, 
a  bit  of  Chinese  blue  and  white,  a  fan  of  old 
Japan,  a  Vermeer,  a  Whistler  symphony,  a  cari 
cature  by  Max  Beerbohm.  She  was  of  massive 
mould  and  very  individually  shapen.  Her  face 
was  very  large  and  very  red  and  heavily  pock 
marked.  In  her  bizarre  garments,  in  some  in 
definable  way  she  imparted  to  the  character  of  the 
born  slattern  something  of  the  Grand  Style. 
Her  utterance  was  quavered  in  a  weird,  cracked 
voice,  which  had  somewhat  an  effect  as  of  the 
wind  crying  high  aloft  in  a  ship's  rigging.  She 
slipslod  about,  always  a  bit  unsteadily.  Her 
movements  and  her  manner  generally,  I  felt, 
made  it  not  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  she  had 
in  secret  certain  habits  no  longer  widely  approved 
by  society.  The  apple  of  her  eye  was  an  un 
kempt  parrot  which  spent  its  days  in  vainly  at 
tempting  to  ascend  the  embracing  sides  of  a  tin 
bathtub. 

Landladies,  beyond  all  other  persons,  have  the 
esoteric  power  of  becoming  for  one  the  geniuses 
of  places.  It  would,  for  instance,  be  quite  im 
possible  for  anyone  to  visualize  my  Mrs.  Cheese- 
man  torn  from,  as  you  might  saw  her  context. 

[251] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

If  you  were  asked  to  describe  Mrs.  Cheeseman 
you  would  naturally  do  it  in  this  way :  You  would 
say,  "Well,  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  the 
sweetest,  quaintest,  fairest  old  inn  in  all  Eng 
land!"  And  into  your  mind  would  come  a  rapid 
cinematograph  picture : 

A  highway  winding  out  of  Dorking,  stretching 
its  way  between  hills  to  the  sea.  You  round  a 
turn  and  see  before  you  long,  low,  glistening 
white  stables — the  stables,  evidently,  of  a  coach 
ing  inn.  And  presently  you  come  into  view  of 
an  ancient,  white,  stone  building  with  a  "Sussex 
roof."  From  a  tall  post  before  the  door  swings 
the  board  of  the  "King's  Head."  White  ducks 
ride  in  a  pond  at  the  roadside  there.  Round  this 
inn  which  you  are  approaching  is  the  greenest, 
handsomest  hedge  ever  seen.  And  along  the  road 
beyond  you  perceive  the  cottages  of  a  wee  village. 

"We  know  that  all  things  work  together  for 
good  to  them  that  love  God."  The  romance  of 
destiny  which  in  its  inscrutable  way  has  been  lead 
ing  you  all  your  long  life  long  to  the  bosom, 
if  I  may  so  put  it,  of  Mrs.  Cheeseman, 
reveals  its  beneficence  now  by  carefully  gradu 
ated  steps.  At  the  other  side  of  the  main  bulk 
of  the  "King's  Head,"  which  it  was  given  you 
[252] 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LANDLADIES 

first  to  see,  you  come  upon  a  delicious  little 
flagged  yard  leading  to  another  arm  of  the  house, 
older  still,  very  venerable,  with  a  high  roof  low 
descending,  a  roof  which  tucks  under  its  project 
ing  wing  many  oddly  placed  little  latticed  win 
dows  gayly  sporting  innumerable  tiny  panes. 
Like  a  miniature  cathedral  spire,  a  tall,  quaint 
chimney  stands  sentinel  at  one  corner,  and  sev 
eral  chimney-pots  peep  over  the  roof's  dark 
crown. 

Up  this  little  yard,  bounded  on  one  side  by  a 
multicolored  flower  garden  whose  fragrance 
bathes  you  in  a  softening  vapor  of  perfume,  you 
enter,  by  a  door  which  requires  you  to  stoop,  the 
wee  taproom.  Here :  a  cavernous  fireplace,  set 
tles  are  within  against  its  sides,  a  gigantic  black 
ened  crane  swung  across  its  middle,  and  a  cubby 
hole  of  a  window  at  its  back.  Above  it  is  swung 
an  ancient  fowling-piece.  The  stone  floor  of  the 
room,  like  the  ancient  flags  without,  is  worn  into 
dips  and  hollows.  Along  the  window-sill  of  an 
oblong  window  measuring  one  wall  is  a  bright 
parade  of  potted  plants. 

It  is  impossible  to  avoid  the  conclusion  that 
there  is  something  psychic  about  landladies.  As 
you  look  about  you  at  the  environment  in  which 

[253] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

you  find  yourself,  you  experience  a  premonition 
that  you  are  nearing  an  affinity  in  the  landlady 
world.  It  is  strange,  too,  that  there  are  places 
where  you  have  never  been  before  (in  the  life 
which  you  consciously  remember)  that  give  you 
at  once  completely  the  feeling  of  your  having 
arrived  at  the  home  familiar  to  your  spirit.  And 
there  presently  occurs  here  an  event  in  your 
career  predetermined  (I  doubt  not)  aeons  and 
aeons  ago.  A  buxom  body  with  the  most  glorious 
complexion  (you  ween)  in  all  England — which  is 
to  say  in  the  world — enters  the  ancient  room: 
a  lass  whose  rosy,  honest,  pedestrian  face  and 
bursting  figure  are  to  become  forever  more  for 
you  the  connotation  of  the  name  "Maggie."  The 
daughter,  this,  (you  later  learn)  of  your  Mrs. 
Cheeseman. 

Soon  it  is  all  arranged,  and  you  are  having 
your  tea — a  "meat  tea" — in  the  sitting-room  of 
the  "King's  Head,"  your  sitting-room  now.  A 
bucolic  slavey — a  person  whose  cheerful  simple- 
ness  is  like  to  that  of  the  little  creatures  of  the 
field — attends  you.  In  this  commodious  apart 
ment  of  yours  is  a  great  scintillation  of  chintz; 
flowers,  in  pots  and  vases,  everywhere  caress  the 
eye;  and  the  fancy  is  kindled  by  the  spectacle 
[254] 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LANDLADIES 

of  many  stuffed  birds  in  glass  cases.  On  the 
heavily  flowered  wall  hangs  a  handsome  speci 
men  of  the  "glass"  (invariably  found  in  Eng 
land)  for  forecasting  the  weather;  a  "piano 
forte,"  as  piquantly  old-fashioned  as  a  cocked 
hat,  crosses  one  end  wall;  and  venerable  paint 
ings  (which  time  has  mellowed  to  the  richness 
and  the  general  color  effect  of  an  old  plug  of  to 
bacco),  bright  sporting  prints,  and  antique  oddi 
ties  of  furniture  to  an  extent  that  it  would  re 
quire  a  catalogue  to  name,  all  combine  to  give  an 
air  of  true  sitting-room  opulence  to  the  chamber. 
But  of  landladies,  and  the  connotations  of  land 
ladies,  one  could  write  a  book  of  several  volumes ; 
and  it  being  a  very  fair  day,  and  a  Sunday,  and 
the  first  cool  breath  after  a  very  hot  summer,  I 
do  not  think  I  shall  write  those  volumes  this  aft 
ernoon  ;  I  shall  go  out  for  a  bit  of  air  and  a  look  at 
the  world. 


[255] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AN  IDIOSYNCRASY 

THEN  there's  the  matter  of  these  dedications. 
Several  weeks  ago  I  received  a  communi 
cation.  I  think  it  was  sent  by  Miss  Katherine 
Lord,  or  maybe  it  was  Hamlin  Garland.  Any 
how,  it  was  an  invitation.  The  upshot  of  this 
invitation  was  that  the  annual  exhibit  of  the 
"best  books  of  the  year"  held  at  the  National 
Arts  Club,  New  York  City,  under  the  auspices 
of  the  Joint  Committee  of  Literary  Arts  was 
now  going — or  was  just  about  to  go.  Further, 
it  was  conveyed  that  the  opening  evening  of  the 
exhibit  would  be  devoted  to  a  reception  for  the 
authors  of  the  books  exhibited.  Also,  that  on 
this  evening  speeches  would  be  made  by  a  num 
ber  of  distinguished  persons  acquainted  with  this 
matter  on  the  subject  of  the  idiosyncrasies  of 
authors  and  editors.  Further  than  this,  this  in 
vitation  made  clear  beyond  all  manner  of  reason 
able  doubt  that  the  pleasure  of  the  evening  would 
[256] 


AN  IDIOSYNCRASY 

be  generally  felt  to  be  sadly  incomplete  without 
the  presence  there  among  the  speakers  of  my 
self. 

The  reasons  why  I  was  (I  am  sorry  to  say) 
unable  to  rise  to  this  occasion  were  two.  For 
one  thing,  I  have  known  long  and  intimately  a 
considerable  number  of  authors  and  editors. 
Also,  I  have  had  the  honor  of  having  been  several 
times  to  the  National  Arts  Club.  And  (such 
is  my  tact  and  delicacy)  I  could  not  feel  that  this 
was  any  fit  place  for  me  to  discuss  the  (as  the 
term  is)  idiosyncrasies  with  which  a  decidedly 
checkered  career  has  acquainted  me.  Then,  as 
to  one  of  my  own  idiosyncrasies :  I  am  like  George 
Moore  in  this  which  he  says,  that  he  is  "the  only 
Irishman  living  or  dead  who  cannot  make  a 
speech" — except  that  I  am  not  an  Irishman. 

All  of  this,  however,  is  merely  picking  up  the 
threads  of  my  thought.  What  I  have  in  my  eye 
is  an  idiosyncrasy  of  authors  which  doubtless  I 
could  have  discussed  with  some  propriety.  That 
is,  if  I  were  able  to  discuss  before  an  audience 
anything  at  all.  Though  with  this  subject,  as 
many  of  those  present  were  authors  (who  had 
their  toes  along  with  them)  I  should  have  had 
to  exercise  more  than  a  little  caution,  and  consid- 

[257] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

erable  skill  in  maintaining  a  honeyed  amiability. 
Maybe  this  theme  wouldn't  have  done  at  all 
either. 

You  see,  it's  this  way:  Many  people,  I  be 
lieve,  do  not  read  the  introductions,  prefaces,  fore 
words  (and  whatever  else  such  things  are  called) 
to  books.  I  always  do.  Perhaps  this  is  a  habit 
formed  during  a  number  of  years  spent  as  a  pro 
fessional  reviewer.  If  you  read  the  introduction, 
preface  (or  whatever  it's  called),  to  a  book  you 
can  generally  pick  up  pretty  much  what  the  au 
thor  thought  he  was  about  when  he  wrote  it,  the 
points  he  intended  to  make  in  the  work,  the  cir 
cumstances  in  which  he  wrote  it,  and  so  on.  This 
is  a  great  time  and  labor  saving  procedure.  All 
you've  got  to  do  then  is  to  read  a  bit  in  the  volume 
here  and  there  to  taste  the  style,  pick  up  a  few 
errors  of  fact  or  grammar,  glance  at  the  "conclu 
sion,"  where  the  author  sums  up,  to  see  whether 
or  not  he  got  anywhere — and  so  far  as  you  are 
further  put  out  by  having  this  book  on  your 
hands  it  might  just  as  well  never  have  been  writ 
ten.  But  I  am  drifting.  That's  one  reason  I 
can't  make  a  speech.  Never  can  recollect  what 
it  was  I  set  out  to  say. 

Oh,  yes !  About  these  dedications.  Less  peo- 
[258] 


AN  IDIOSYNCRASY 

pie  than  read  prefaces,  I  fancy,  read  the  dedica 
tions  of  books.  I  always  read  'em.  I  read  them 
when  I  have  no  intention  whatever  of  reading 
the  volumes  which  they — well,  dedicate.  They 
are  fine — dedications.  Better,  far  better,  than 
old  tombstones.  But  never  judge  a  book  by  its 
dedication. 

I  one  time  knew  a  man,  of  a  most  decidedly 
humorous  cast  of  mind,  who  was  a  great  spend 
thrift,  an  Al  wastrel.  He  ran  through  every 
thing  his  father  left  him  (a  very  fair  little  for 
tune),  and  then  when  he  had  run  through,  in 
advance  of  that  gentleman's  death,  everything 
his  wife  was  to  inherit  from  his  father-in-law  he 
had  no  means  whatever.  He  had  a  daughter. 
Without,  it  was  clearly  evident,  the  least  suspi 
cion  of  the  pleasant  humor  of  this,  he  named  her 
Hope.  She  was  a  small  child.  And — it's  ab 
surd,  I  know;  but  'tis  so;  there  was  not  a  particle 
of  conscious  irony  in  it ;  this  child's  name  was  the 
one  blind  spot  in  her  father's  sense  of  the  ridicu 
lous — her  parents  frequently  referred  to  her  af 
fectionately  as  "little  Hope." 

So,  quite  so,  with  dedications.  Whenever,  or 
perhaps  we  had  better  say  frequently,  when  a 
man  writes  a  particularly  worthless  book  he  lays 

[259] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

the  deed  (in  his  dedication  of  it)  onto  his  wife, 
"without  whose  constant  devotion,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc., 
"this  work  would  never  have  come  into  being." 
Amen!  Or  he  says  that  it  is  inscribed  "To — my 
gentlest  friend — and  severest  critic — my  aged 
Grandmother."  Or  maybe  he  accuses  his  little 
daughter,  "whose  tiny  hands  have  led  me." 
Again  he  may  say  benignantly:  "To — my  faith 
ful  friend — Murray  Hill — who  made  possible 
this  volume";  or  "the  illumination  of  whose  per 
sonality  has  lighted  my  way  to  truth." 

Doubtless  he  means  well,  this  author.  And, 
in  most  cases,  highly  probable  it  is  that  his  mag 
nanimous  sentiments  are  O.  K.  all  round.  For 
to  the  minds  of  what  would  probably  be  called 
"right-thinking"  persons  is  not  having  a  book 
dedicated  to  you  the  equivalent,  almost,  of  hav 
ing  a  career  yourself?  I  know  a  very  distin 
guished  American  novelist — well,  I'll  tell  you 
who  he  is:  Booth  Tarkington — who  has  told  me 
this:  Time  and  again  he  has  been  relentlessly 
pursued  by  some  person  unknown  to  him  who,  in 
the  belief  that  did  he  once  hear  it  he  would  surely 
use  it  as  material  for  his  next  book,  wished  to 
tell  him  the  story  of  his  life.  This  life,  accord 
ing  to  the  communications  received  by  the  nov- 
[260] 


AN  IDIOSYNCRASY 

elist,  was  in  every  case  one  of  the  most  remark 
able  ever  lived  by  man.  It  was,  in  every  case, 
most  extraordinary  in,  among  a  variety  of  other 
singular  things,  this:  the  abounding  in  it  of  the 
most  amazing  coincidences.  And  so  on,  and  so 
on,  and  so  on.  One  of  these  romantic  person 
ages  nailed  the  novelist  somewhere  coming  out 
of  a  doorway  one  day,  and  contrived  to  compel 
him  to  sit  down  and  listen  to  the  life  story.  He 
was  an  old,  old  man,  this  chap,  and  firmly  con 
vinced  that  the  tale  of  his  many  days  (as  simple, 
commonplace,  dull  and  monotonous  an  existence 
as  ever  was  conceived)  was  unique.  Now  he 
did  not  want  any  pay  for  telling  his  story ;  he  had 
no  design  on  any  royalty  to  come  from  the  great 
book  to  be  made  out  of  it ;  no,  not  at  all.  All  he 
asked — and  that,  he  thought,  was  fair  enough — 
was  that  the  book  be  dedicated  to  him.  And  so 
it  was  with  them  all,  all  of  those  with  the  remark 
able,  obscure,  romantic,  humdrum  lives.  So 
much  for  that. 

Dedications  run  the  whole  gamut  of  the  emo 
tions.  A  type  of  author  very  tonic  to  the  spirit 
is  that  one  whose  soul  embraces  not  merely  an 
individual  but  which  enfolds  in  its  heroic  sweep 
a  nation,  a  people,  or  some  mighty  idea.  What, 

[261] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

for  instance,  could  be  more  vast  in  the  grandeur 
of  its  sweep  than  this — which  I  came  upon  the 
other  day  in  a  modest  little  volume?  "To  the 
Children  of  Destiny."  The  Great  War,  which 
has  wrought  so  much  evil  and  inspired  so  much 
literature,  is  responsible  for  a  flood  of  noble,  lofty 
dedications.  The  merest  snooping  through  a 
bunch  of  recent  war  books  turns  up,  among  a 
multitude  more,  the  following:  "To  the  Mothers 
of  America."  "To — the  Loyalty  and  Patriot 
ism — of  the — American  People."  "To  the  Hour 

-When  the  Troops  Turn  Home."    "To  All  the 
Men  at  the  Front." 

I  should  not  affirm,  of  course,  that  there  is  any 
thing  new  under  the  sun.  And  it  is  very  prob 
able  that  ever  since  this  psychic  literature  began 

(whenever  it  began)  authors  resident  beyond  the 
stars  have,  naturally  enough,  dedicated  their  man 
uscripts  submitted  to  earthly  publishers  to  folks 
back  in  the  old  home,  so  to  say.  But  with  the 
War,  which  has  so  greatly  stimulated  literary  ac 
tivity  on  the  other  side  of  life,  the  dedications 
of  these  (to  put  it  so)  expatriated  authors  have 
perhaps  become  (in  a  manner  of  speaking)  loft 
ier  in  tone  than  ever  before.  As  a  sample  of 
the  present  state  of  exalted  feeling  of  authors 
[262] 


AN  IDIOSYNCRASY 

of  this  sort  I  copy  the  following  dedication  from 
the  recently  published  book  of  a  writer  "gone 
West":  "To  the  heroic  women  of  the  world,  the 
mothers,  wives  and  sweethearts  who  bravely  sent 
us  forth  to  battle  for  a  great  cause: — we  who 
have  crossed  the  Great  Divide  salute  you." 

I  wish,  I  do  wish,  I  had  at  hand  a  book  which 
I  saw  a  number  of  years  ago.  .  .  .  As  examples 
of  persons  to  whom  books  have  been  dedicated 
may  be  specified  The  Deity,  The  Virgin  Mary, 
Royalty  and  Dignitaries  of  Church  and  State, 
'kThe  Reader,"  and  the  author  himself.  Many 
of  the  pleasantest  dedications  have  been  to  chil 
dren.  Besides  armies  and  navies,  countries, 
states,  cities  and  their  inhabitants,  books  have 
also  been  dedicated  to  institutions  and  societies, 
to  animals,  to  things  spiritual,  and  to  things  in 
animate.  An  attractive  example  of  a  dedica 
tion  to  Deity  is  furnished  by  one  John  Leycaeter, 
who,  in  1649,  dedicated  his  "Civill  Warres  of 
England,  Briefly  Related  from  his  Majesties 
First  Setting  Up  his  Standard,  1641,  to  this 
Present  Personall  Hopefull  Treaty"— "To  the 
Honour  and  Glory  of  the  Infinite,  Immense, 
and  Incomprehensible  Majesty  of  Jehovah,  the 
Fountaine  of  all  Excellencies,  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 

[263] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

the  Giver  of  all  Victories,  and  the  God  of  Peace." 
He  continued  in  a  poem,  "By  J.  O.  Ley,  a  small 
crumme  of  mortality." 

But  about  that  book  I  saw  some  time  ago. 
You,  of  course,  remember  that  prayer  in  "Tom 
Sawyer"  (or  somewhere  else  in  Mark  Twain) 
where  the  great-hearted  minister  called  upon  the 
Lord  to  bless  the  President  of  the  United  States, 
the  President's  Cabinet,  the  Senate  of  the  United 
States,  the  governors  of  each  of  the  states,  and 
their  legislatures,  the  mayors  of  all  the  cities,  and 
all  the  towns,  of  the  United  States,  and  the  in 
habitants  —  grandmothers  and  grandfathers, 
mothers  and  wives,  husbands  and  fathers,  sons 
and  daughters,  bachelors  and  little  children — of 
every  hamlet,  town  and  city  of  the  United  States, 
also  of  all  the  countryside  thereof.  Well,  this 
book  of  which  I  am  speaking, — this  minister  in 
the  august  range  and  compass  of  his  prayer  had 
nothing  on  its  dedication.  It  was  published,  as 
I  recollect,  by  the  author ;  printed  on  very  woody 
wood-pulp  paper  by  a  job  press,  and  had  a  coarse 
screen  frontispiece  portrait  of  the  author,  whose 
name  has  long  since  left  me.  What  it  was  about 
I  do  not  remember.  That  is  a  little  matter.  It 
lives  in  my  mind,  and  should  live  in  the  memory 
[264] 


AN  IDIOSYNCRASY 

of  the  world,  by  its  dedication;  which,  I  recall, 
in  part  was :  "To  the  Sultan  of  Turkey— the  Em 
peror  of  Japan — the  Czar  of  Russia — the  Em 
peror  of  Germany — the  President  of  France — 
the  King  of  England — the  President  of  the 
United  States— and  to  God." 

But  it  was  in  an  elder  day  that  they  really 
knew  how  to  write  sonorous  dedications.  If  I 
should  write  a  book  (and  the  idea  of  having  one 
to  dedicate  tempts  me  greatly)  I'd  pick  out  some 
important  personage,  such  as  Benjamin  De  Cas- 
seres,  or  Frank  Crowinshield,  or  Charles  Hanson 
Towne,  or  somebody  like  that.  Then  I  would 
take  as  the  model  for  my  dedication  that  one,  say, 
of  Boswell's  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  I  am 
afraid  you  have  not  read  it  lately.  And  so,  for 
the  joy  the  meeting  of  it  again  will  give  you,  I 
will  copy  it  out.  It  goes  as  follows: 

My  Dear  Sir, — Every  liberal  motive  that  can  actuate  an 
Authour  in  the  dedication  of  his  labours,  concurs  in  direct 
ing  me  to  you,  as  the  person  to  whom  the  following  Work 
should  be  inscribed. 

If  there  be  a  pleasure  in  celebrating  the  distinguished 
merit  of  a  contemporary,  mixed  with  a  certain  degree  of 
vanity  not  altogether  inexcusable,  in  appearing  fully 
sensible  of  it,  where  can  I  find  one,  in  complimenting  whom 
I  can  with  more  general  approbation  gratify  those  feel 
ings?  Your  excellence  not  only  in  the  Art  over  which  you 
have  long  presided  with  unrivalled  fame,  but  also  in  Phi- 

[265] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

losophy  and  elegant  Literature,  is  well  known  to  the  pres 
ent,  and  will  continue  to  be  the  admiration  of  future  ages. 
Your  equal  and  placid  temper,  your  variety  of  conversation, 
your  true  politeness,  by  which  you  are  so  amiable  in  private 
society,  and  that  enlarged  hospitality  which  has  long  made 
your  house  a  common  centre  of  union  for  the  great  and  ac 
complished,  the  learned,  and  the  ingenious ;  all  these  quali 
ties  I  can,  in  perfect  confidence  of  not  being  accused  oi 
flattery,  ascribe  to  you. 

If  a  man  may  indulge  an  honest  pride,  in  having  it 
known  to  the  world,  that  he  has  been  thought  worthy  of 
particular  attention  by  a  person  of  the  first  eminence  in 
the  age  in  which  he  lived,  whose  company  has  been  uni 
versally  courted,  I  am  justified  in  availing  myself  of  the 
usual  privilege  of  a  Dedication,  when  I  mention  that  there 
has  been  a  long  and  uninterrupted  friendship  between  us. 

If  gratitude  should  be  acknowledged  for  favours  received, 
I  have  this  opportunity,  my  dear  Sir,  most  sincerely  to 
thank  you  for  the  many  happy  hours  which  I  owe  to  your 
kindness, — for  the  cordiality  with  which  you  have  at  all 
times  been  pleased  to  welcome  me, — for  the  number  of 
valuable  acquaintances  to  whom  you  have  introduced  me, — 
for  the  nodes  ccenceque  Deum,  which  I  have  enjoyed  under 
,rour  roof. 

If  a  work  should  be  inscribed  to  one  who  is  master  of 
the  subject  of  it,  and  whose  approbation,  therefore,  must 
ensure  it  credit  and  success,  the  Life  of  Dr.  Johnson  is, 
with  the  greatest  propriety,  dedicated  to  Sir  Joshua  Rey 
nolds,  who  was  the  intimate  and  beloved  friend  of  that 
great  man;  the  friend,  whom  he  declared  to  be  "the  most 
invulnerable  man  he  knew;  whom,  if  he  should  quarrel  with 
him,  he  should  find  the  most  difficulty  how  to  abuse."  You, 
my  dear  Sir,  studied  him,  and  knew  him  well :  you  venerated 
and  admired  him.  Yet,  luminous  as  he  was  upon  the  whole, 
you  perceived  all  the  shades  which  mingled  in  the  grand 
composition ;  all  the  peculiarities  and  slight  blemishes  which 
marked  the  literary  Colossus.  Your  very  warm  commenda 
tion  of  the  specimen  which  I  gave  in  my  "Journal  of  a 

[266] 


AN  IDIOSYNCRASY 

Tour  to  the  Hebrides/'  of  my  being  able  to  preserve  his 
conversation  in  an  authentik  and  lively  manner,  which 
opinion  the  Publik  has  confirmed,  was  the  best  encourage 
ment  for  me  to  persevere  in  my  purpose  of  producing  the 
whole  of  my  stores.  .  .  . 
I  am,  my  dear  Sir, 

i  Your  much  obliged  friend, 

And  faithful  humble  servant, 
London,  April  20,  1791.  JAMES  BOSWELL. 

In  a  more  modern  style  of  composition  the 
epistolary  form  of  dedication  is  still  employed. 
I  wish  I  had  not  (one  time  when  I  was  moving) 
lost  that  copy  I  had,  English  edition,  of  George 
Moore's  book  "The  Lake."  I  have  a  feeling  that 
the  dedicatory  letter  there,  in  French,  was  an 
admirable  example  of  its  kind  of  thing.  If  you 
happen  to  have  a  copy  of  the  book,  why  don't 
you  look  it  up  ? 

When  poems  are  written  as  dedications  an  es 
tablished  convention  is  followed.  You  affect  at 
the  beginning  (in  this  formula)  to  be  very  humble 
in  spirit,  deeply  modest  in  your  conception  of 
your  powers.  You  speak,  if  your  book  is  verse, 
of  your  "fragile  rhyme,"  or  (with  Patmore)  you 
"drag  a  rumbling  wain."  Again  perhaps  you 
speak  (in  the  words  of  Burns)  of  your  "wee  bit 
heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble,"  or  you  call  Southwell 
to  witness  that: 

[267] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

He  that  high  growth  on  cedars  did  bestow, 
Gave  also  lowly  mushrumps  leave  to  grow. 

And  so  on.  At  any  rate,  you  always  do  this. 
Then  you  say  that  his  (or  her)  eyes  for  whom 
the  book  was  written  will  change  the  dross  to 
gold,  the  "blind  words"  to  "authentic  song,"  the 
"mushrump"  to  a  flower,  or  some  such  thing. 
So,  after  all,  you  skillfully  contrive  to  leave  your 
book  to  the  reader  on  a  rather  high,  confident 
note.  Any  other  way  of  writing  a  dedicatory 
poem  to  a  book  of  verse  (being  out  of  the  tradi 
tion  altogether)  is,  I  take  it,  bad,  very  bad,  liter 
ary  etiquette. 

Numerous  dedications  have  considerable  fame. 
There  is  that  enigmatical  one  to  "Mr.  W.  H.," 
prefixed  by  Thomas  Thorpe,  bookseller  of  Lon 
don,  to  Shakespeare's  Sonnets.  And  Dr.  John 
son's  scathing  definition  of  a  patron  when  Lord 
Chesterfield  fell  short  of  Johnson's  expectations 
in  the  amount  which  he  contributed  to  the  pub 
lication  of  the  famous  dictionary  men  will  not 
willingly  let  die.  Another  celebrated  dedication 
is  that  of  "The  Gentle  Art  of  Making  Enemies" 
— "To  the  Rare  Few,  who,  early  in  life,  have  rid 
themselves  of  the  Friendship  of  the  Many." 
Laurence  Sterne's  solemn  "putting  up  fairly  to 
[268] 


AN  IDIOSYNCRASY 

public  sale"  to  an  imaginary  lord  a  dedication 
to  "Tristram  Shandy"  is  not  without  merit. 
John  Burroughs  was  felicitous  in  his  dedication 
of  "Bird  and  Bough"— "To  the  kinglet  that  sang 
in  my  evergreens  in  October  and  made  me  think 
it  was  May."  And  a  very  amiable  dedication 
prefixed  to  "The  Bashful  Earthquake,"  by  Oliver 
Herford,  illustrated  by  the  author,  is  this:  "To 
the  Illustrator,  in  grateful  acknowledgment  of 
his  amiable  condescension  in  lending  his  exquisite 
and  delicate  art  to  the  embellishment  of  these 
poor  verses,  from  his  sincerest  admirer,  The 
Author."  Mr.  Herford's  latest  book  (at  the 
time  of  this  writing),  "This  Giddy  Globe,"  is 
dedicated  so:  "To  President  Wilson  (With  all 
his  faults  he  quotes  me  still)." 

A  clever  dedication,  I  think,  is  that  of  Chris 
topher  Morley's  "Shandygaff  "—"To  The  Miehle 
Printing  Press — More  Sinned  Against  Than 
Sinning."  A  dedication  intended  to  be  clever, 
and  one  frequently  seen,  is,  in  effect,  "To  the 
Hesitating  Purchaser."  A  certain  appropriate 
ness  is  presented  in  a  recent  book  on  advertising, 
"Respectfully  dedicated  to  the  men  who  invest 
millions  of  dollars  a  year  in  national  advertis 
ing."  And  some  nimbleness  of  wit  is  attained  in 

[269] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

the  inscription  of  the  book  "Why  Worry"— "To 
my  long-suffering  family  and  circle  of  friends, 
whose  patience  has  been  tried  by  my  efforts  to 
eliminate  worry,  this  book  is  affectionately  dedi 
cated."  As  cheerful  a  dedication  as  I  have  come 
across  is  that  prefixed  by  Francis  Hackett  to  his 
volume  "The  Invisible  Censor";  it  is:  "To  My 
Wife — Signe  Toksvig — whose  lack  of  interest — 
in  this  book  has  been  my — constant  desperation." 
Miss  Annie  Carroll  Moore,  supervisor  of  work 
with  children  at  the  New  York  Public  Library, 
tells  me  that  the  other  day  a  small  boy  inquired, 
"Who  was  the  first  man  to  write  a  book  to  an 
other  man?"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Perhaps 
this  is  told  somewhere.  A  number  of  books  and 
articles  concerning  dedications,  I  have  heard,  are 
to  be  found  in  studious  places.  I  have  never  read 
any  of  them.  I  remember,  however,  reviewing 
for  a  newspaper  a  number  of  years  ago  ( I  think 
it  was  in  1913)  a  book,  then  just  published,  called 
"Dedications :  An  Anthology  of  the  Forms  Used 
from  the  Earliest  Days  of  Bookmaking  to  the 
Present  Time."  It  was  compiled  by  Mary  Eliz 
abeth  Brown.  The  volume  made  handy  to  the 
general  reader  a  fairly  representative  collection 
of  dedications. 
[270] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  SEXLESS  CAMERA 

THERE  is  no  nicer  point,  perhaps,  in  the 
study  of  photography  as  the  one  true, 
detached  observer  of  mankind  than  here :  It  sees, 
what  man  has  not  seen — as  his  own  representa 
tions  show,  his  paintings,  his  drawings,  his  sculp 
tures — the  feminine  underpinning  with  a  quite 
passive,  sexless  eye. 

In  this  interesting  matter  there  are  two  human 
conceptions.  There  is  the  chorus  girl  style  of 
leg,  the  expression  of  piquancy,  which  does  not 
perhaps  appeal  to  the  noblest  emotions,  but  the 
fascination  of  which  has  always  haunted  man 
whenever  he  has  delineated  anything  in  a  stock 
ing.  Then  there  is  the  chaste,  nude  feminine 
limb  of  the  painter  and  the  sculptor.  Both  pho 
tography  shows  to  be  idealization. 

When  the  camera  reproduces  the  chorus  girl 
herself,  suddenly  strangely  plain  and  painted, 
there  is  to  the  observing  and  reflective  instead  of 

[271] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

sauciness  the  hollowness  of  sauciness.  There  can 
be  few  things  more  awful  than  those  silent  photo 
graphs  of  some  gay  chorus,  reproducing,  as  they 
do,  the  spectacle  with  solemn  critical  aloofness 
from  the  spirit.  It  is  as  though  the  dawn  of 
Judgment  Day  had  suddenly  broken  upon  the 
unspeakably  wretched  and  tawdry  scene.  There 
is  something,  it  would  seem,  indescribably  tender, 
affectionate,  in  the  irony  of  the  gods  which 
arranges  that  men  should  display  in  theatre 
lobbies,  as  an  inducement  to  buy  tickets  of  admis 
sion  within,  these  death's  heads  of  frivolity.  As 
if  the  Comic  Spirit  itself  were  touched  by  the 
charm  of  the  naivete  of  man. 

But,  indeed,  twinkling  in  the  sympathetic  light 
upon  the  Broadway  stage,  the  professional  cho 
rus  girl  leg,  well  selected  no  doubt  to  begin  with, 
and  shaped  with  all  the  science  of  art,  has  be 
guiled  even  the  reflective.  A  light  intoxicant, 
it  swirls  in  the  veins  like  champagne  for  the  care 
less  moment  it  makes.  It  is  pleasant  because  it 
is  false. 

The  real  leg,  remarks  the  camera,  is  the  ama 
teur  leg ;  it  is  depressing,  but  terribly  convincing. 
As  it  stands  in  the  raw  light  of  the  cheap  pho 
tographer  (and  this  too,  too  human  document, 
[272] 


THE  SEXLESS  CAMERA 

the  likeness  of  the  poor  girl  who  has  performed 
somewhere  in  curiously  home-made  looking 
"tights,"  and  been  photographed  thus  afterward, 
is  one  of  the  stock  exhibits  of  that  most  realistic 
of  historians,  the  cheap  photographer)  the  ama 
teur  leg  decidedly  lacks  dash.  The  knee  joint 
somehow  seems  to  work  somewhat  the  wrong 
way.  Sometimes,  in  circumference,  this  limb  is 
immense,  sometimes  the  reverse.  But  the  terri- 
bleness  of  it  always  is  that  it  is  so  human.  That 
is,  it  is  the  leg  of  an  animal.  Subconsciously  it 
suggests  surgery. 

Conspicuous  among  the  postures  assumed  for 
its  iconoclastic  purpose  by  the  genius  of  photog 
raphy  is  that  of  "art."  That  fetish  of  the  great 
body  of  the  unenlightened,  the  dim  feeling  that 
to  the  enlightened  bodily  nakedness  in  pic 
torial  representation  is  something  very  fine,  is 
played  upon.  The  "art  photograph"  is  an  ironic 
tour  de  force.  If  specimens  of  this  have  ever 
fallen  in  the  way  of  your  observation,  then  you 
have  reflected  upon  the  strange  discrepancy 
between  the  female  nude  as  presented  in  painting 
and  sculpture  and  in  photographs.  (Oh,  souls 
of  Fragonard,  Boucher,  Watteau,  what  romantic 
rogues  you  were!)  You  will  have  perceived, 

[273] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

with  some  grim  humor,  that  until  the  invention 
of  photography,  nobody,  apparently,  had  ever 
seen  a  nude  female  figure. 

Now  there  is  Edgar  Degas, — and  it  is  a  curi 
ous  reflection  that  in  comparison  with  the  work 
of  this  pessimist  genius  who  has  deliberately 
brought  cynicism  to  bear  upon  the  female  nude, 
photographs  purporting  (over  their  sneer)  to 
be  reflections  of  beauty,  give  by  far  the  most  dis 
tressing  impression.  In  the  painful  realization 
that  they  have  a  kind  of  truth  beyond  human  art 
these  abominable  humbugs  are  a  kind  of  art. 
What  (you  exclaimed)  was  Schopenhauer's 
remark  about  the  clouded  intellect  of  man  which 
could  give  the  name  of  the  "fair  sex"  to  "that 
under-sized,  narrow-shouldered,  broad-hipped, 
knock-kneed  race"? 

It  may  be  a  long  "drive,"  but  it  strikes  you  as 
a  thoughtful  observer  that  there  is  some  biologi 
cal  analogy  between  "art  photographs"  and  the 
photographs,  to  be  seen  in  travel  books,  of  native 
African  women.  What  a  philosopher  the  camera 
is!  The  French  savant  was  very  probably  con 
templating  the  photograph  of  some  member  of  a 
savage  tribe  when  he  wrote,  in  "The  Garden  of 
Epicurus"  (addressing  modern  ladies) :  "But 
[274] 


THE  SEXLESS  CAMERA 

never  think  too  highly  of  yourselves,  my  sisters ; 
you  were  not,  at  your  first  appearance  in  the 
world,  perfect  and  fully  armed.  Your  grand 
mothers  in  the  days  of  the  mammoth  and  the 
giant  bear  did  not  wield  the  same  dominion  over 
the  prehistoric  hunters  and  cave-men  which  you 
possess  over  us.  You  were  useful  then,  and 
necessary,  but  you  were  not  invincible.  To  tell 
the  truth,  in  those  far-off  ages,  and  for  long 
afterwards,  you  lacked  charm.  In  those  days 
you  were  like  men,  and  men  were  like  brutes. 
To  make  of  you  the  fearful  and  wonderful  thing 
you  are  today — veils:  the  Empire,  crinoline, 
decollete,  tube,  pannier."  And,  the  sexless 
camera  explains,  the  poetry  of  man. 


[275] 


CHAPTER  XXV 

I  KNOW  AN  EDITOR 

I  KNOW  a  young  woman — a  very  handsome 
young  woman  she  is,  too.  ( I  have  a  decided 
penchant  for  handsome  young  women.)  But 
that  is  beside  the  point.  As  I  was  about  to  say 
(when  a  pleasant  but  an  .extraneous  idea  inter 
rupted  me) :  this  young  woman  the  other  day 
took  her  young  husband  by  the  hand  and  con 
ducted  him  to  the  offices  of  a  publisher.  Here 
she  mounted  him  upon  a  chair  (very  much,  I 
fancy,  as  though  the  child  were  about  to  have  his 
hair  cut),  and  she  said  to  the  barber — I  mean 
she  said  to  the  editor,  with  whom  she  had  some 
acquaintance — she  said:  "This  is  my  husband. 
He  is  just  out  of  the  army.  I  have  brought  him 

in  to  have  his  head  shingled" No,  no!  that 

isn't  what  she  said ;  I  am  getting  my  wires  crossed. 
She  said,  "I  have  brought  him  in  to  get  him  a 
position  here." 

Said  the  editor,  "What  would  your  son,  I  mean 
your  husband,  like  to  do?" 
[276] 


I  KNOW  AN  EDITOR 

"I  want  him,"  replied  the  young  woman,  "to 
be  an  editor." 

"Has  he  ever  been  an  editor?"  inquired  the 
editor  kindly,  as  he  admired  the  shape  of  the 
young  woman's  nose. 

"No,"  she  answered,  stroking  his  hand  (the 
hand,  that  is,  of  her  husband),  "why,  no." 

"What  has  been  his  experience?"  asked  the 
editor,  as  the  thought  of  all  the  hard  work  he 
had  to  do  in  the  next  hour  and  a  half  wrestled 
in  his  mind  with  his  pleasure  in  the  young 
woman's  voice. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "before  he  went  into  the 
army  I  don't  know  that  he  had  any  particular 
experience.  He  was  just  out  of  college,  you  see." 

"Oh!"  said  the  editor,  "I  see.  And  why,"  he 
asked  musingly,  "do  you  want  him  to  be  an 
editor?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  exactly,"  answered  the 
young  woman,  "I  just  thought  it  would  be 
rather  nice  to  have  him  be  an  editor." 

Even  so.  Day  after  day,  come  into  publishing 
houses  young  persons,  and  indeed  people  of  all 
ages,  who  have  a  hunch  (and  apparently  nothing 
more  to  go  by)  that  they  would  like  to  be  "an 
editor."  Also,  in  every  other  mail,  come  letters 

[277] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

from  aspirants   in   distant   parts   setting  forth 
(what  they  deem)  their  qualifications. 

Now  and  then  someone  makes  such  an  applica 
tion  who  has  been  an  editor  before.  It  (editing) 
is  probably  the  only  business  he  knows,  and  per 
haps  it  is  too  late  (or  his  spirit  is  too  broken) 
for  him  to  take  up  another.  So,  disillusioned  but 
not  misguided,  for  him  there  is  charity  of 
thought.  But  the  fledglings  are  in  the  great 
majority.  Their  qualifications  (is  it  necessary 
to  say?)  usually  are:  a  university  degree,  per 
haps  some  association  with  a  college  paper, 
maybe  the  credit  of  an  article  (or  a  poem)  or 
two  published  in  a  minor  magazine  issued  for  the 
Intelligentzia,  a  very  sincere  attachment  to  books 
of  superior  worth,  a  disdain  for  empyreal  litera 
ture,  openness  to  a  modest  salary  (to  begin), 
and  an  abysmal  lack  of  any  comprehension  of 
the  business  of  publishing  books  or  magazines. 
Every  little  bit  turns  up  one  who  (it  develops) 
wants  a  job  on  the  side,  as  it  were,  merely  to  sus 
tain  the  real  business  of  life,  which  (maybe)  is 
taking  a  graduate  course  at  Columbia,  or  some 
such  thing.  And  in  many  cases  (it  is  obvious) 
the  real  business  of  life  is  writing  poetry,  or  fic- 
[278] 


I  KNOW  AN  EDITOR 

tion,  though  to  this  end  a  job  must  be  endured — 
doubtless  temporarily. 

Now  why  anyone  should  want  to  be  an  editor 
beats  me.  No,  I  retract.  'Tis  quite  plain.  Igno 
rance,  ma'am,  sheer  ignorance  of  the  calamity. 
I  know  an  editor;  in  fact,  I  know  six.  One, 
indeed,  is  a  brother  of  mine,  another  is  a  cousin,  a 
third  an  uncle.  Before  they  became  editors  they 
used  to  read  books  and  magazines — for  pleasure, 
sometimes;  or  again  for  profit  to  their  souls. 
Now  they  do  neither.  They  read  only  profes 
sionally.  They  can't  read  anything  unless  they 
have  to,  in  the  way  of  business.  Before  they 
became  editors  they  led  intellectual  lives;  spirit 
ually  they  grew  continually.  They  used  to  be 
perfectly  delighted,  excited  (as  people  should 
be) ,  by  hearing  of  books,  of  authors,  new  to  them. 
They  were  fascinated  by  the  journey  of  their 
minds.  They  might  have  gone  on  thus  through 
their  years,  interested  in  themselves,  interesting 
to  others,  pillars  of  society.  They  might  even, 
for  all  their  thoughts  (then)  were  inspirations, 
have  written  delightful  things  themselves.  In 
fact,  two  of  them  did.  But  they  became  editors. 

Now  they,  subconsciously,  count  the  words  of 
manuscripts.  They  cut  articles,  like  cloth,  to  fit. 

[279] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

They  gauge  the  "rate"  to  be  paid  for  this,  for 
that.  They  cannot  take  an  interest  in  this 
because  something  like  it  has  just  appeared  some 
where  else.  They  can't  take  an  interest  in  that 
because  it  is  not  like  something  that  has  just 
made  a  hit  somewhere  else.  Now  when  they  have 
something  to  read  they  say  (like  Plim,  Bimm, 
whatever  his  name  was,  the  veteran  hack  novel 
ist  in  the  early  Barrie  story),  "I'll  begin  the 
damn  thing  at  eight  o'clock." 

Worst  of  all,  they  have  lost,  totally  lost,  that 
shield  against  adversity,  that  great  joy  in  days 
of  prosperity,  that  deep  satisfaction  of  life.  I 
mean,  of  course,  the  relish  of  buying  books. 
Everyone  knows  that  to  revel  in  the  possession 
of  a  book  one  must  covet  it  before  one  feels  one 
should  buy  it.  Everyone  knows  that  to  love  a 
book  jealously  one  must  have  made  some  sacri 
fice  to  obtain  it.  That  a  library  which  supplies 
unending  strength  to  the  spirit  means  in  all  its 
parts,  a  little  here,  a  little  there,  some  self-denial 
of  other  things. 

But  editors,  poor  fish,  are  impotent  in  this  high 
and  lasting  pleasure;  they  have  lost  the  power 
to  spend  their  money  for  books.  They  expect 
books  to  be  given  to  them  free  by  the  publishers. 
Their  money  goes  for  Kelley  pool  and  cigars. 
[280] 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  DIP  INTO  THE  UNDERWORLD 

WHEN  I  go  back  home,"  he  said,  "and  tell 
them  about  this  they  won't  believe  it." 

It  was  a  pleasant  April  Sunday  afternoon. 
We  were  sitting  very  comfortably  in  a  saloon 
over  Third  Avenue  way  about  the  middle  of 
Manhattan  Island.  Throngs  of  customers  came 
and  went  through  the  front  door,  whose  wicket 
gate  was  seldom  still.  Whiskey  glasses  twinkled 
and  tinkled  all  along  the  long  bar.  Only  here 
and  there  in  the  closely  packed  line  of  patrons 
stood  one  with  a  tall  "schooner"  of  beer  before 
him.  Harry  and  Ed,  in  very  soiled  white  jack 
ets,  led  an  active  life. 

You  see,  since  theoretically  intoxicants  were 
not  being  sold,  there  was  no  occasion  for  the  pre 
tence  of  being  closed  on  Sunday  and  confining 
business  to  the  side  door  and  the  back  room.  On 
the  table  between  us  lay  a  newspaper.  Its  head 
lines  proclaimed  yesterday's  "liquor  raids,"  thou- 

[281] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

sands  upon  thousands  of  dollars  worth  of  "rum" 
confiscated  by  the  city  police  in  the  progress  of 
the  campaign  resulting  from  the  recent  passage 
of  the  New  York  State  "dry"  law. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  page  was  a  little  story 
of  the  conviction  of  a  delicatessen  dealer  some 
where  on  the  outskirts  of  Brooklyn  on  whose 
premises  had  been  discovered  by  the  authorities 
a  small  amount  of  wine  containing  more  than 
one-half  of  one  per  cent  alcohol. 

Pete  came  in  hurriedly.  Harry  and  Ed 
glanced  at  him  questioningly.  He  nodded  to 
them  as  though  to  say  "yes,"  and  dropped  into 
the  chair  before  us.  "They're  comin',"  he  re 
marked.  "About  half  a  block  off."  Every 
whiskey  glass  had  suddenly  disappeared  from 
the  bar. 

Pete,  a  little  grey  man  now  of  about  fifty  who 
arises  for  the  day  at  about  noon,  has  had  an  inter 
esting  career.  Once  upon  a  time  he  was  a  "bell 
hop"  in  Albany.  He  is  a  devoted  patron  of  the 
silent  drama  and  a  man  of  intellectual  interests — 
making  a  hobby  of  clipping  from  newspapers 
poems  and  editorials  which  impress  him  and  read 
ing  them  several  months  later  to  chance  acquaint 
ances  who  are  too  drowsy  to  oppose  him.  His 
[282] 


A  DIP  INTO  THE  UNDERWORLD 

connection  with  this  establishment  is  light  and 
picturesque.  His  duties  are  chiefly  social.  That 
is,  he  sees  home  one  after  another  customers  who 
require  that  friendly  attention.  He  is  perpetu 
ally  agreeable  to  the  suggestion  of  gratuitous  re 
freshment.  He  is  very  cheerful  and  gentlemanly 
in  the  matter  of  accommodating  his  tastes  to  any 
liquid  from  ten-cent  beer  to  ninety-cent  Scotch 
which  the  purchaser  is  disposed  to  pay  for. 

Here  they  were!  The  two  police  officers 
strolled  in  slowly,  smiling.  In  their  blue  and 
their  gold  buttons  they  looked  very  respendent 
against  the  somewhat  shabby  scene.  Ranged 
along  before  the  bar  were  a  number  of  young 
men  in  the  uniform  of  private  soldiers.  There 
were  several  sailors.  Here  was  a  postman  cheer 
ing  himself  on  his  rounds.  There  was  a  huge 
fellow  the  nickel  plate  on  whose  cap  announced 
that  he  was  a  piano  mover.  The  centre  of  a 
group,  there  was  a  very  large  man  who  looked 
as  though  he  had  something  darkly  to  do  with 
ward  politics.  At  one  place  in  the  line  was  a 
very  dapper  little  Japanese,  who  produced  his 
money  from  a  wallet  carried  in  his  breast  pocket. 
But  mostly  the  motley  company  was  of  the  riff 
raff  order  of  humanity.  That  is  another  one  of 

[283] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

the  curious  developments  of  "prohibition."  Here, 
in  all  places  of  this  character,  you  may  find  an 
endless  number  of  the  sort  of  men  who  used  to  be 
accustomed  to  paying  as  little  as  ten  cents  for 
a  drink  of  very  fiery  and  inferior  whiskey,  now 
standing  before  the  bar  by  the  hour  and  paying 
from  fifty  to  seventy-five  cents  for  whiskey  (if 
you  can  call  it  that)  considerably  worse.  How 
on  earth  can  they  do  it  ?  I  do  not  know. 

The  two  policemen  moved  the  length  of  the 
room,  and  came  to  a  halt  at  the  open  end  of  the 
bar.  Here  they  stood  for  a  couple  of  moments, 
observing  (  I  felt  with  some  amusement)  Harry 
and  Ed  serving  their  beakers  of  beer.  Then,  as 
though  suddenly  having  a  bright  idea,  one  of 
theni  made  his  way  along  back  of  the  bar  to  the 
cigar  case  at  the  front  end.  He  stooped,  opened 
the  sliding  panel  at  the  bottom  of  this  and  poked 
around  inside  with  his  club.  As  he  came  along 
behind  the  bar  back  to  the  open  end  he  stooped 
several  times  to  peer  at  the  shelf  below.  He 
joined  his  comrade,  the  two  of  them  thrust  their 
heads  into  the  back  room,  and  then  moved  out 
through  the  side  door. 

"Well,  we're  safe  for  another  hour,"  said 
Pete.  "Why  couldn't  they  find  the  stuff?"  I 
[284] 


A  DIP  INTO  THE  UNDERWORLD 

asked  him.  "I'll  bet  you  couldn't  find  it  if  you'd 
go  behind  the  bar  yourself,"  he  answered.  Harry 
and  Ed  had  found  it  within  two  seconds  after 
the  shadow  of  the  law  had  lifted.  And  the  room 
was  humming  with  the  sound  of  renewed,  and 
somewhat  hectic,  conviviality.  "We'll  get  caught 
pretty  soon  though,  I  guess,"  observed  Johnnie, 
the  Italian  "chef,"  who  on  week-days  served  the 
economical  lunch  of  roast  beef  sandwiches  and 
"hot  dogs."  Harry  and  Ed  laughed  in  a  rather 
uncomfortable  way.  But  for  the  present,  at 
least,  business  was  too  brisk  for  their  thoughts  to 
be  distracted  more  than  a  second  or  two  from 
the  job. 

"The  old  man,"  remarked  Pete,  referring  to 
the  proprietor,  "is  on  a  toot  again.  Been  under 
the  weather  for  about  a  week  now.  He  always 
gets  that  way  whenever  one  of  the  new  law  scares 
comes  along.  Gets  worried  or  sore  or  something 
and  that  upsets  him." 

Pete  hadn't  been  very  well  himself  for  several 
days.  Sick  in  bed,  he  said,  yesterday.  He  never 
used  to  be  sick  at  all,  "in  the  old  days,"  he 
declared,  no  matter  how  much  he  had  taken  the 
day  before.  Never  had  a  headache,  or  bad 
stomach,  or  anything  like  that.  A  little  nervous, 

[285] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

perhaps,  yes.  "But  it's  the  kind  of  stuff  we  get 
nowadays,"  he  thought.  "There  hasn't  been  time 
since  prohibition  started  for  the  system  to  get 
trained  to  react  to  this  TNT  stuff,  like  it  was 
to  regular  liquor.  Maybe  in  ten  years  or  in  the 
next  generation  people's  systems  will  have  got 
adjusted  to  this  kind  of  poison  and  it'll  be  all 
right  with  'em."  It's  an  interesting  idea,  I  think. 

A  customer  was  requesting  Ed  to  "fix  him 
up"  a  pint  flask.  No,  it  couldn't  be  done  just 
now,  as  the  supply  was  running  too  low  for  it  to 
be  passed  out  that  much  at  a  time.  The  disap 
pointed  customer  tried  to  content  himself  with 
endeavoring  to  absorb  as  much  of  a  pint  as  he 
could  obtain  through  a  rapidly  consumed  series 
of  single  drinks.  And  pretty  soon  it  was  offi 
cially  announced  from  the  bar  that  there  would 
be  "no  more  until  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning." 
I  gathered  that  the  reserve  stock  was  upstairs 
or  downstairs  and  that  the  "old  man"  had  gone 
away  with  the  key. 

We  went  forth  to  take  a  walk,  Pete  accom 
panying  us  as  a  sort  of  cicerone,  and  discoursing 
with  much  erudition  of  bar-rooms  as  we  went. 
"These  places  are  getting  scarce,"  he  observed. 
"There  don't  seem  to  be  any,  or  there  seems  to 
[286] 


A  DIP  INTO  THE  UNDERWORLD 

be  hardly  any  of  the  old  places  uptown,"  I 
remarked.  "Oh!  no;  not  in  residential  neighbor 
hoods,"  he  replied;  and  I  inferred  that  the  law 
was,  in  deference  to  the  innocent  spirit  of  domes 
ticity,  keener-eyed  there.  "And  there  ain't  but 
very  few  below  the  dead-line  downtown,"  Pete 
said. 

They  have,  the  bars,  very  largely  disappeared 
from  Broadway.  Have  been  gone  from  that 
thoroughfare  for  some  time.  And  in  this  thought 
we  come  upon  one  of  the  great  mockeries  of  the 
situation  which  has  existed  since  the  Eighteenth 
Amendment  went  (more  or  less)  into  effect. 
What  I  mean  is  this :  A  great  many  people  who 
had  no  ferocious  opposition  to  the  idea  of  a  cock 
tail  being  drunk  before  a  meal,  or  wine  with  it, 
or  even  a  liqueur  after  it,  did  detest  the  saloon. 
It  was  the  institution  of  the  common,  corner 
saloon,  I  fancy,  at  which  the  bulk  of  American 
temperance  sentiment  was  directed. 

The  perverse  operation  of  prohibition  then  was 
this:  It  ceased  to  be  possible  (openly)  to  obtain 
any  alcoholic  beverage  in  anything  like  whole 
some  surroundings,  in  a  first-class  restaurant  or 
hotel  or  in  a  gentleman's  club.  But  in  New  York 
City,  as  is  known  to  everybody  who  knows  any- 

[287] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

thing  at  all  about  the  matter,  the  saloons,  and 
particularly  the  lower  class  of  saloons,  have 
flourished  as  never  before. 

As  we  crossed  Broadway  Pete  pointed  out 
one  place  which  had  been  going  until  a  short  time 
ago,  an  odious  looking  place  (as  I  remember  it) 
within.  It  was  but  a  short  way  from  a  club  of 
distinguished  membership.  So  much  had  this 
doggery  become  frequented  by  these  gentlemen 
that  it  became  jocularly  known  among  them  as 
the  "club  annex." 

Continuing  on  over  into  the  West  Side,  here 
was  a  place,  now  a  shop  dealing  in  raincoats,  but 
formerly  a  "gin-mill"  where  throughout  this  last 
winter  there  had  been  an  extraordinary  infusion 
of  Bacardi  rum,  drunk  neat,  as  their  favorite 
drink,  by  its  multitudinous  customers.  And 
there  was  a  place,  a  baby  carriage  exhibited  for 
sale  in  its  window  now,  which  as  a  saloon  had 
burned  out  one  night  not  long  ago ;  when  its  pro 
prietor  accepted  the  catastrophe  with  striking 
cheerfulness,  withdrew  his  business  activities  to 
his  nearby  apartment  and  took  up  calling  upon 
old  customers  by  appointment.  Innumerable  the 
places  over  which  Pete  breathed  a  sigh,  which  had 
lately  turned  into  tobacco  stores  or  candy  shops. 
[288] 


A  DIP  INTO  THE  UNDERWORLD 

We  turned  in  at  a  door  on  Sixth  Avenue.  A 
little  more  caution  seemed  to  be  observed  here 
than  at  the  place  we  had  just  left.  But  Pete, 
of  course,  would  pass  any  scrutiny.  The  liquor 
bottle,  you  noted,  stood  within  the  safe  at  the 
inner  end  of  the  bar,  its  door  hanging  ready  at 
any  moment  to  be  kicked  to.  The  barman  cov 
ered  with  his  hand  the  little  glasses  he  set  out 
until  you  took  them,  and  admonished,  "Get  away 
with  it!"  The  drinks  were  eighty  cents  a  throw, 
but  they  had  the  feel  of  genuine  good-grade  rye. 

Night  had  fallen.  We  passed  into  the  back 
room,  where  a  pathetic  object  was  banging  dis 
mal  tunes  on  a  rattle-trap  of  a  piano.  A  party  of 
four  entered.  The  young  women  were  very 
young  and  decidedly  attractive.  The  two  couples 
began  to  circle  about  in  a  dance.  Next  moment 
came  a  terrific  thundering  on  the  front  of  the 
building.  "Cop  wants  less  noise,"  said  the  waiter 
to  the  dancers;  "you'll  have  to  quit."  "Throw 
that  into  you,"  he  said  to  the  seated  customer  he 
was  serving,  and  directly  whisked  away  the 
glasses. 

"When  I  go  back  home,"  said  my  friend  from 
the  Middle  West,  "and  tell  them  about  this  they 
won't  believe  it." 

[289] 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 


1C AME  very  near  to  being  shot  in  the  White 
House  grounds  the  other  day.  Yep!  You 
see,  my  friend  is  a  bit  on  the  order  of  what  the 
modistes  call  "stylish  stout."  Rather  more  than 
a  bit,  indeed.  Looks  something  like  a  slightly 
youthfuller  Irvin  Cobb.  Also  wouldn't  consider 
it  decent  of  him  out  of  doors  not  to  "wear"  his 
stag-handled  cane.  Altogether,  not  unlikely  to 
be  taken  for  a  real  somebody.  He  was  fishing 
round  in  his  breast  pocket  for  the  letter  his  sena 
tor  from  "back  home"  had  given  him  to  the 
President's  secretary.  Drew  out  what  may  have 
seemed  an  important  looking  document. 

As  we  came  along  the  path  toward  the  execu 
tive  offices  there  was  an  up-stage  looking  bunch 
thronging  about  the  little  steps — rollicking 
gamins,  smartly  turned  out  flappers,  a  sprinkling 
of  rather  rakish  looking  young  males,  and  (in 
[290] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

their  best  black  silk)  a  populous  representation 
of  those  highly  honorable  and  very  ample  figures 
who  have  generously  mothered  the  young  sons 
and  daughters  of  the  American  prairies. 

Suddenly  from  the  side  lines  they  popped  out 
— a  whole  battery  of  them,  with  their  bug-like 
machines  on  tall  stilts.  The  motion  picture 
camera  men  were  taking  no  chances  that  any 
thing  important  would  escape  their  fire.  Evi 
dently  they  couldn't  quite  place  us,  however,  so 
we  got  through  the  door  without  further  incident. 

When  we  had  entered  the  grounds  through  the 
gate  at  the  far  side  of  the  lawn  my  thoughtful 
friend  had  thrown  away  his  lighted  cigar,  feeling 
that  promiscuous  smoking  here  would  be  taboo 
from  danger  of  fire  to  so  precious  a  national 
jewel  as  the  White  House.  Within  the  ante 
room  to  the  executive  offices  the  scene  very  decid 
edly  suggested  one  of  those  jovial  masculine 
gatherings  termed  a  "smoker."  The  seething 
and  motley  company  of  (obviously)  newspaper 
men  put  one  in  mind  of  the  recent  arrival  at  a 
military  training  camp  of  a  nondescript  batch 
of  drafted  men  not  yet  got  into  uniform.  Gen 
eral  air  about  the  room  of  loafing  in  a  corner 
cigar  store. 

[291] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

Then,  suddenly,  a  rising  murmur  and  a  pell- 
mell  push  toward  the  door.  My  friend  and  I 
were  swayed  out  upon  the  step,  and  saw  at  the 
gate  directly  at  the  street  corner  of  the  building 
the  movie  camera  men  very  vigorously  clearing 
for  action.  They  had  halted  close  before  them 
a  tall,  striking  and  very  distinguished  figure. 
You  instantly  recognized  him  by  the  insignia 
which  he  wore  on  the  slope  toward  his  chin  of 
his  under  lip — a  wisp  of  whisker  (light  straw 
color)  such  as  decorated  the  illustrious  counte 
nance,  too,  of  the  late  James  Abbott  McNeil 
Whistler. 

He  was,  this  gentleman,  looking  very  sheepish, 
continually  bowing  in  a  rather  strained  manner 
to  the  camera  men  and  lifting  his  black  derby 
hat  to  them.  They  were  scrambling  about  the 
legs  of  their  engines  and  cranking  away  with  a 
rattle.  "Over  this  way  a  little,  Mr.  Paderewski !" 
yelled  one.  "Hold  on,  Mr.  Paderewski,  there 
you  are!"  bawled  another.  Boisterous  mirth 
about  the  doorway  .  .  .  "That's  good!"  "Sure, 
he's  only  a  premier." 

Then,  a  deferential  scattering  to  make  way  for 
him  as  he  approached.  Held  him  up  again,  the 
camera  guerrillas,  on  the  steps.  He  was  bowing 
[292] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

with  an  effect  of  increasing  strain  and  the  inten 
sity  of  his  sheepishness  becoming  painful  to  con 
template.  His  hair  a  white  bush  thrusting  out 
behind.  Ghostly  white  bow  tie.  His  black 
clothes  beautifully  sleek  and  pressed.  At  close 
up,  his  features  blunter,  less  sensitive  in  chiselling 
than  appears  in  his  photographs.  The  flesh  of 
his  face  striking  in  the  degree  of  the  pinkness  and 
fairness  of  complexion  of  the  races  of  Northern 
Europe. 

My  friend  and  I  had  riot  yet  seen  Mr.  Chris 
tian.  Had  that  morning  called  upon  Mr. 
Tumulty  on  a  matter  of  business.  Found  he  had 
set  up  shop  in  a  business  structure  called  the 
Southern  Building.  Transom  Legend:  Law 
Offices  .  .  .  Joseph  P.  Tumulty.  On  entrance 
door:  Joseph  P.  Tumulty,  Charles  H.  Baker. 
Outstanding  feature  of  ante-chamber  a  life-size 
cream  plaster  bust,  on  tall  polished  wood  pedes 
tal,  of  Woodrow  Wilson.  Mr.  Tumulty,  stocky 
of  stature,  driving  in  manner,  bustled  forth  from 
his  private  office.  Exhaled  atmosphere  of  ruddi 
ness. 

My  friend  at  times  (I  fear)  speaks  with  some 
circumlocution.  Our  real  business  here  settled, 
he  was  ambling  on  toward  the  expression  of  his 

[293] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

hope  that  we  might  possibly  be  able  sometime, 
just  for  a  moment,  to  see,  just  get  a  glimpse 
of  ... 

"The  President,"  Mr.  Tumulty  cut  in,  with 
an  anticipating  nod.  My  friend  looked  a  bit 
confused  as  (I  could  see)  the  words  "the  ex- 
President"  were  about  to  come  from  him.  But, 
undoubtedly,  both  of  them  meant  the  same  gen 
tleman. 

In  the  executive  offices  we  trailed  along  with 
the  newspaper  men  for  their  daily  afternoon 
interview  with  Mr.  Christian,  my  friend  bathing 
himself  in  tobacco  smoke  as  complacently  as  any 
one  of  the  party.  Entered  a  sort  of  council 
chamber.  Long  table  down  the  middle.  Con 
spicuous  ornament  of  the  apartment,  on  a  mantel, 
a  plaster  cast  of  a  humorous  Uncle  Sam  in  a 
dress  coat,  holding  aloft  an  American  flag,  and 
flanked  by  a  turkeyfied  looking  eagle. 

Congregation  pressed  close  about  the  table, 
behind  which  in  a  swivel  chair  sat  in  a  relaxed  and 
rather  pensive  attitude  an  angular  figure,  swing 
ing  leisurely  looking  legs  which  terminated  in 
very  white  sox  and  low-cut  shoes.  A  rather 
thick  thatch  of  greying  hair,  large  aquiline  fea 
tures,  a  rather  melancholy  cast  of  expression, 
[294] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

eyes  cast  downward  at  the  table,  clothes  not 
recently  pressed  and  which  no  one  would  be 
inclined  to  call  dapper,  Mr.  Christian  in  general 
effect  suggested  a  good  deal  one's  impression  of 
a  somewhat  dusty  "reference  librarian"  at  the 
information  desk  of  the  New  York  Public 
Library  being  besieged  by  an  unusually  large 
number  of  questioners. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  uttered  very  quietly 
and  slowly,  "what  have  you  got  on  your  mind?" 

"George,"  asked  a  figure  with  pad  and  pencil 
in  hand,  "what  about  this?"  Mr.  Christian 
appeared  to  ponder  the  matter  a  good  while,  and 
the  upshot  of  his  cogitation  appeared  to  be  that 
there  wasn't  much  of  anything  about  it.  "And 
what  is  there  to  that?"  inquired  aonther.  Well 
at  length  there  didn't  seem  to  be  much  to  that 
either.  A  few  items  of  information  were  given. 
And  the  audience  briefly  closed. 

When  we  had  filed  out  with  the  company  from 
the  room  my  friend  and  I  took  seats  in  the  corri 
dor.  He  had  given  his  letter  to  the  doorman. 
A  couple  of  soldiers  in  uniform,  a  group  of  very 
spruce,  robust  and  cheery-looking  Catholic 
priests,  an  elderly  individual  of  very  dejected 
pose,  and  a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  human- 

[295] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

ity  also  were  waiting.  The  doorman  was  being 
continually  accosted.  "Just  want  to  shake  hands 
with  him,  that's  all,"  and  "Just  want  to  say  'How 
de  do',"  were  solicitations  frequently  overheard. 

The  doorman  beckoned  to  us  and  told  us  to  go 
into  an  apartment  which  he  indicated  and  "take 
a  seat."  Probably  my  friend  didn't  hear  that 
instruction,  as  he  marched  straight  up  to  Mr. 
Christian  directly  upon  entering  the  room 
flooded  with  afternoon  light  pouring  through  an 
imposing  row  of  tall  and  beautiful  windows. 
Mr.  Christian  slowly  arose  from  his  desk,  coming 
gradually  to  his  full  height,  and  yielded  a  cau 
tious  hand  to  my  friend.  He  looked  at  the  bright 
and  somewhat  flustered  countenance  of  my 
friend  rather  sadly,  as  it  seemed.  Though  at 
some  sally  of  my  friend's  about  the  pronuncia 
tion  of  his  name  he  smiled  with  considerable 
natural  human  warmth.  Then  very  gravely  he 
stated  that  with  so  many  appointments  at  present 
to  be  made,  and  with  the  multitudinous  labors 
now  upon  him,  and  so  forth  and  so  on,  it  was 
hardly  possible  that  he  could  just  now  arrange 
for  my  friend  to  have  a  word  with,  as  he  said. 
.  .  .  "the  Senator." 

My  friend  was,  obviously,  a  bit  taken  aback 
[296] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

by  the  term,  as  his  mind  had  been  careering  along 
with  visions  of  his  seeing  no  less  a  person  than 
the  President.  But  there  was  no  doubt  that 
both  he  and  Mr.  Christian  were  referring  to  the 
same  gentleman. 

I  should  add  that  my  friend's  self-imposed  mis 
sion  of  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Harding  and 
writing  an  article  about  his  impressions  of  him 
before  the  President  had  yet  given  an  audience 
to  the  accredited  representatives  of  the  press 
was  more  or  less  audacious.  And  I  should  add 
still  further  that  Mr.  Christian  seemed  genu 
inely  reluctant  to  dismiss  my  friend  without  a 
ray  of  hope,  and  suggested  that  he  call  again 
after  a  few  days.  Suggestion  was  at  Mr.  Chris 
tian's  own  volition. 

As  we  turned  to  leave  the  room  we  saw  that  the 
bevy  of  Catholic  Fathers  and  several  other  per 
sons  had  also  been  admitted,  and  were  all  beam 
ing  with  bland  cheerful  confidence. 

We  strolled  along  the  driveway  leading  by  the 
front  entrance  to  the  White  House.  The  baggy 
looking  policeman  lazily  sunning  himself  beside 
the  portico  recalled  to  my  mind  with  amusing 
contrast  the  snappy  Redcoats  who  briskly  pace 
back  and  forth  before  Buckingham  Palace. 

[297] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

They  are  superbly  haughty  and  disdainful 
beings.  A  charmingly  democratic  character,  this 
policeman.  "  'At  a  fierce  cloud  over  there,"  he 
observed  to  us  as  we  paused  nearby. 

A  splendid  looking  army  officer  together  with 
a  caped  naval  commander  emerged  with  springy 
step  from  the  White  House  door,  both  carrying 
an  air  of  high  elation.  A  sumptuous  car  rolled 
up  and  halted  beneath  the  portico  roof  extend 
ing  over  the  driveway.  From  it  a  lady  leaned  out 
extending  a  card.  Out  pranced  a  gleaming 
negro  flunky  to  receive  it  with  bows  of  elaborate 
courtliness.  As  he  turned  to  re-enter  the  White 
House  it  struck  me  that  I  did  not  believe  I  had 
ever  seen  a  happier  looking  human  being.  Also, 
in  his  beautiful  dark  blue  tail  coat  with  bright 
silver  buttons,  and  delicately  striped  light  waist 
coat,  he  brought  to  my  mind  (incongruously 
enough)  the  waiters  at  Keen's  Chop  House.  The 
lady  rolled  on. 

A  bumptious  looking  character  mounted  to  the 
entrance,  and  sent  in  a  card.  It  was  evident 
in  his  bearing  that  he  expected  within  a  moment 
to  stride  through  the  doorway.  A  figure  in  a 
skirt  coat  emerged.  Bumptious  being  springs 
upon  him  and  begins  to  pump  his  hand  up  and 
[298] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

down  with  extraordinary  verve,  straining  the 
while  toward  the  doorway.  Skirt  coat  (his  hand 
continuing  to  be  pumped)  deferentially  edges 
bumptious  character  outward  toward  descending 
steps. 

It  had  been  an  exceedingly  hot  day  for  early 
spring.  Traffic  policemen  had  stood  on  their 
little  platforms  at  the  centre  of  the  street  cross 
ings  under  those  mammoth  parasols  they  have  to 
shield  them  from  the  rigors  of  the  Washington 
sun.  As  we  proceeded  toward  our  exit  from 
the  grounds,  approaching  to  the  White  House 
came  a  diminutive  and  decrepit  figure  muffled 
in  an  overcoat  extending  to  his  heels,  bowed 
under  a  tall  top  hat,  a  pair  of  mighty  ear-muffs 
clamped  over  his  ears. 

We  had  that  morning  visited  the  Capitol.  My 
friend  had  been  much  more  interested  in  the 
guide-conducted  touring  parties  than  in  the  atro 
cious  painting  of  the  Battle  of  Lake  Erie,  and 
so  on,  expatiated  on  to  them.  Parties  which, 
he  said,  made  him  feel  that  he  was  back  again 
at  the  Indiana  State  Fair.  We  had  sat,  in  the 
visitors'  gallery  of  the  Senate,  in  the  midst  of  a 
delegation  of  some  sort  of  religious  sect,  whose 
beards  had  most  decidedly  the  effect  of  false 

[299] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

whiskers  very  insecurely  attached.  Had  been 
much  struck  by  the  extreme  politeness  of  a  new 
Senator  who  bowed  deeply  to  each  one  in  turn 
of  a  row  of  pages  he  passed  before.  Had  re 
sponded  within  a  few  minutes  to  the  command  of 
"All  out!"  because  of  executive  meeting,  and 
sympathised  with  the  sentiments  of  fellow  citizens 
likewise  ejected  who  went  forth  murmuring  that 
they  hadn't  "got  much." 

We  had  wandered  through  the  noble  and  im 
maculate  Senate  Office  building,  and  been  much 
impressed  by  the  scarcity  of  spittoons  there,  an 
abundance  of  which  articles  of  furniture  we  had 
since  boyhood  associated  with  all  public  build 
ings.  We  had  sat  in  the  outer  office  of  our  state's 
senator,  and  listened  to  one  lady  after  another 
explain  to  his  secretary  in  this  wise:  "I  just  made 
up  my  mind  ...  I  just  decided  to  go  right  after 
it  ...  I  just  determined  ...  I  just  thought 
.  .  .  Otherwise,  of  course,  I  shouldn't  presume 
to  ask  it." 

In  the  Library  of  Congress  we  had  been  much 
interested  to  hear  an  European  gentleman  of 
vast  erudition  connected  with  the  Library  declare 
that  "there  was  more  intellectual  life  in  Wash 
ington  than  in  any  other  city  in  America — that 
[300] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

it  was  an  European  city,  in  the  best  sense."  We 
had  been  accosted  on  the  street  by  a  very  portly 
and  loud-voiced  man  who  introduced  himself  by 
inquiring  where  we  were  from;  who  confided 
that  his  business  in  Washington  had  to  do  with 
an  alcohol  permit ;  and  who  asked  to  be  directed 
to  Corcoran  Gallery.  We  had  run  into  an  old 
actor  friend  who  was  here  playing,  he  said,  "nut 
stuff";  and  who  observed  that  Washington  was 
"more  of  a  boob  town  than  ever."  We  had  been 
assured  by  a  newspaper  friend  that  Washington 
was  so  full  of  inventors  and  blue  law  fans  that 
if  you  "dropped  a  match  anywhere  a  nut  would 
step  on  it." 

We  had  been  charmed  by  the  vast  number  of 
elderly  couples  apparently  on  a  final  mellow 
honeymoon  before  the  fall  of  the  curtain.  At 
lunch  had  overheard  an  inland  matron  inquire 
of  a  waitress  if  scollops  were  "nice."  Had 
enjoyed  hot  corn  bread  with  every  meal.  Had 
been  unable  to  account  for  the  appearance  on 
the  streets  of  so  many  wounded  soldiers.  Had 
made  the  mistake  of  getting  up  so  early  that  in 
the  deep  Washington  stillness  of  half  past  seven 
we  were  scared  to  run  the  water  for  our  baths 
for  fear  of  rousing  the  sleeping  hotel  to  angry 

[301] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

tumult.  Had  noted  that  nowhere  except  in 
London  is  the  fashion  of  freshly  polished  shoes 
so  much  an  institution.  Had  speculated  as  to 
why  the  standard  model  of  the  American  states 
man's  hat  should  be  a  blend  of  an  expression  of 
the  personalities  of  W.  J.  Bryan,  Buffalo  Bill 
and  Colonel  Watterson. 

And,  finally,  listening  in  the  evening  to  the 
orchestra  in  the  corridor  of  the  New  Willard, 
we  discussed  the  large  opportunities  for  a  serious 
literary  work  dealing  with  the  varieties  and 
idiosyncrasies  of  the  Washington  hair  cut.  There 
is  the  Bryan  type,  with  the  hair  turned  outward 
in  a  thick  roll  above  the  back  of  the  neck,  and 
forming  a  neat  hat  rest.  There  is  the  roach  back 
from  a  noble  dome.  There  is  the  grey  curly 
bushy  all  around.  There  is  the  heavy  grey  wave 
mounting  high  over  one  side.  And — well,  there 
seem  to  be  an  almost  endless  number  of  styles, 
all  more  or  less  peculiar  to  the  spirit  of  Wash 
ington,  and  all  of  distinct  distinction. 

ii 

"Who's  the  old  bird  gettin'  so  many  pictures 
took?"  inquired  a  loitering  passerby. 

A  hum  of  much  good  nature  was  coming  from 
[302] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

the  motley  throng  about  the  steps  before  the 
executive  office  of  the  White  House.  "Beer  and 
light  wine,"  called  out  someone,  apparently  in 
echo  to  something  just  said  by  the  queer  looking 
character  being  photographed  by  the  battery 
of  camera  men,  and  a  rattle  of  laughter  went 
around  through  the  group. 

"That's  old  Coxey,"  replied  someone.  "He's 
down  here  to  get  Debs  out,"  he  added.  The 
amiable  and  celebrated  "General"  who  a  num 
ber  of  years  ago  had  led  his  "army"  on  to  Wash 
ington  was  smiling  like  a  very  wrinkled  and  ani 
mated  potato  into  the  lenses  of  the  cameras 
which  had  been  moved  to  within  a  couple  of  feet 
or  so  of  his  nose. 

My  friend  and  I  crossed  the  street  to  the  State, 
Army  and  Navy  building.  We  had  been  there 
the  other  day  to  see  a  young  man  in  the  State 
Department  to  whom  he  had  a  card.  Had  been 
much  struck  by  his  beauty..  And  had  wondered 
if  handsomeness  was  a  requisite  for  a  statesman 
in  this  Administration. 

Now  we  sought  the  press  room.  Presented 
our  credentials  to  a  press  association  man  there. 
Cordial  chap.  Said,  "Stick  around."  Others 
floated  in.  Pretty  soon  press  association  man 

[303] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

heartily  calls  out  to  my  friend  (whose  name  is 
Augustus),  "George.  Come  on!"  And  we  trail 
along  with  about  fifty  others  into  the  ante 
chamber  of  the  new  Secretary  of  the  Navy,  who 
at  half  past  ten  is  to  give  his  first  interview  to 
the  newspaper  men. 

Funny  looking  corridors,  by  the  way,  in  this 
building.  Swing  doors  all  about,  constructed  of 
horizontal  slats,  and  in  general  effect  bearing  a 
picturesque  resemblance  to  the  doors  of  the  old- 
time  saloon. 

I  noticed  that  as  we  went  along  my  friend 
punched  in  one  side  of  the  crown  of  his  soft  hat 
and  raked  it  somewhat  to  one  side  of  his  head. 
He  felt,  I  suspected,  uncomfortably  neat  for 
the  society  of  this  bonhomie  crowd  of  bona  fide 
newspaper  men,  and  did  not  wish  to  appear 
aloof  by  being  too  correct  in  attire. 

The  company  passed  along  the  corridor  and 
into  the  anteroom  under  a  heavy  head  of  tobacco 
smoke.  There  the  press  association  man  pre 
sented  each  of  the  flock  in  turn  to  a  chubby  little 
fellow  behind  a  railing,  whom  I  took  to  be  secre 
tary  to  the  Secretary ;  and  presently  the  delega 
tion  was  admitted  to  the  inner  office,  a  spacious 
apartment  where  one  passed  first  an  enormous 
[304] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

globe,  then  a  large  model  of  the  Old  Kearsarge 
in  a  glass  case;  and  at  length  we  ranged  our 
selves  closely  before  a  mountain  of  a  man  in  a 
somewhat  saggy  suit.  Clean  shaven,  massive 
features,  very  bald  dome,  widely  smiling,  Secre 
tary  Denby  looks  just  a  bit  (I  thought)  like 
Mr.  Punch.  His  voice  comes  in  a  deep  rumble 
and  he  has  entirely  ample  ears.  Trousers  too 
long. 

No ;  he  had  not  seen  the  story  in  that  morning's 
paper  which  was  handed  to  him  by  one  of  the 
reporters.  He  would  not  confirm  this ;  he  would 
not  deny  that.  After  all,  he  had  been  "only  a 
week  in  the  job."  And  one  might  so  very  easily 
be  "injudicious."  "Wily  old  boy,"  was  one 
comment  as  the  party  trailed  out  and  made  for 
the  press  telephones,  discussing  among  them 
selves  "how  would  you  interpret"  this  and  that? 

Next,  at  eleven  o'clock,  the  Secretary  of  State 
was  down  on  the  newspaper  men's  schedule.  We 
went  into  a  kind  of  waiting  room  across  the  cor 
ridor  from  the  real  offices  of  the  Secretary. 
Most  conspicuous  decoration  a  huge  painting  of 
a  Bey  of  Tunis,  the  presentation  of  which  (the 
inscription  said)  had  something  to  do  with  con 
dolences  from  France  on  the  death  of  Lincoln. 

[305] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

Also  on  one  wall  a  portrait  of  Daniel  Webster. 

Mr.  Fletcher,  Under  Secretary  of  State,  ap 
peared  before  us.  Very  dapper  gentleman. 
Athletic  in  build.  Fashionable  clothes.  Grey 
hair  but  youthful  in  effect.  Handsome,  smooth- 
shaven  face.  Suggested  an  actor,  or  perhaps  a 
very  gentlemanly  retired  pugilist.  Held  beau 
tiful  shell  spectacles  in  hand  before  him.  Stood 
very  straight.  Had  another  fellow  alongside  of 
him  to  supply  information  when  himself  in  doubt. 
When  asked  concerning  someone  who  was  in  jail, 
inquired  "Where  is  the  old  boy?"  Smiling  cor 
dially,  seeking  continually  for  an  opportunity  for 
some  joke  or  pleasantry,  trying  bravely  to  keep 
up  a  strong  front,  but  obviously  becoming  more 
and  more  uneasy  under  the  ordeal  of  rapid- 
fire  questions  about  Russia,  Germany,  Japan 
and  so  on  and  so  on.  On  being  asked  con 
cerning  diplomatic  appointments  under  consid 
eration,  bowed  briskly,  replied  "A  great  many," 
and  escaped — almost,  it  might  be  said,  fled. 

Secretary  of  War  next  on  the  list.  Full  length 
portraits  in  his  offices  of  Generals  Pershing, 
Bliss  and  Petain.  Many  flags,  historic  ones 
(presumably)  in  glass  cases.  Heavy  build, 
Secretary  Weeks,  very  wide  across  the  middle. 
[306] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

Straggling  moustache,  drooping.  Very  direct 
and  business-like  in  manner.  Entered  room  say 
ing,  "Well,  there  are  a  number  of  things  I  have 
to  tell  you  gentlemen."  Frank  and  positive  in 
his  statements  and  denials.  Stood  twisting  a 
key-ring  as  he  talked.  Wore  neat  pin  in  tie. 
When  told  that  the  War  Department  was  sup 
posed  to  have  such  and  such  a  thing  under  con 
sideration,  he  replied,  tapping  himself  on  the 
breast.  "Not  this  part  of  the  War  Department." 
One  questioner  sought  to  obtain  from  him  a  more 
direct  reply  to  a  question  that  had  been  put  to 
the  Secretary  of  the  Navy.  He  answered,  "I 
know  nothing  about  the  navy."  When  there 
was  apparently  nothing  more  that  he  had  to  say, 
he  concluded  the  audience  very  deftly. 

"He's  a  different  guy,  ain't  he?"  was  one  cor 
respondent's  observation  as  we  passed  out  of  the 
room.  "One  of  the  biggest  men  in  the  govern 
ment,"  he  added.  "Gives  the  impression  of 
knowing  as  much  about  that  job  now  as  Baker 
did  when  he  left." 

To  the  National  Press  Club  we  went  for  lunch. 
It  is  pleasant  to  see  in  what  esteem  this  club  holds 
those  two  eminent  journalists,  Eugene  Field  and 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,  whose  portraits  hang 

[307] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

framed  side  beside  on  one  of  its  walls.  Napoleon, 
however,  is  held  in  such  very  great  regard  as  a 
newspaper  man  that  another  and  larger  picture 
of  him  hangs  in  another  room. 

The  newspaper  army  had  shifted  to  the  busi 
ness  office  of  the  White  House.  As  we  entered 
Secretary  Weeks  was  departing.  He  pressed 
through  the  throng  of  reporters  clustered  about 
him.  "Nothing  to  say,"  was  apparently  what 
he  was  saying.  "We  are  referred  to  Warren," 
said  one  of  the  men.  "Looks  like  we  really  were 
going  to  see  him,"  said  another.  The  President 
had  not  yet  given  an  interview  to  the  press  men. 
So  we  took  seats  among  the  rows  of  figures 
ranged  around  the  walls. 

While  waiting  we  were  given  an  audience,  so 
to  say,  by  Laddie,  the  White  House  Airedale. 
Curly  haired  breed.  "How  old  is  he?"  we  asked 
the  small  colored  boy  whose  office  includes  charge 
of  him.  "A  year,"  he  said.  The  dog  stands  well, 
and  holds  his  stump  of  a  tail  straight  aloft,  cor 
rectly  enough.  But  there  is  altogether  too  much 
black  on  him,  we  observed ;  covers  his  breast  and 
flanks,  instead  of  being  merely  a  "saddle"  on  his 
back.  "Yes,  everybody  says  it,"  answered  the 
boy. 

[308] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

Secretary  Hughes  was  seen  coming  down  the 
corridor  on  his  way  out.  The  newspaper  men 
pressed  forward  forming  a  narrow  line  through 
which  he  walked,  very  erect,  smiling  broadly, 
bowing  to  right  and  left,  and  continually  moving 
his  black  derby  hat  up  and  down  before  him. 
"Gets  a  great  reception,  don't  he?"  said  one 
reporter,  glowing  with  a  sort  of  jovial  pride  at 
Mr.  Hughes. 

"You'll  have  to  see  the  boss,"  Mr.  Hughes 
repeated  a  number  of  times  as  he  came  along, 
and  turning  slightly  made  one  last  very  good- 
natured  bow  as  he  moved  out  through  the  door. 

"Are  they  all  here?"  called  out  Mr.  Christian, 
then  marshalled  us  through  his  office  and  into  the 
large,  circular  and  very  handsome  office  of  the 
President. 

While  we  awaited  him  he  could  be  seen, 
through  a  doorway,  talking,  on  a  porch-like 
structure  opening  out  along  the  back  of  the 
building.  He  was  very  leisurely  in  manner.  I 
think  my  first  outstanding  impression  of  my 
glimpse  of  him  was  that  he  was  a  very  handsome 
man,  most  beautifully  dressed  in  a  dark  blue 
serge  sack  suit,  very  sharply  pressed. 

He  came  in,  moving  slowly,  stood  close  behind 

[309] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

his  desk,  and  said,  "Well,  gentlemen,  what  is 
there  that  I  can  tell  you?"  He  spoke  very 
quietly  and  deliberately.  The  Cabinet  he  said 
had  discussed  problems  relating  to  the  "hang 
over"  (as  he  put  it)  of  the  War,  in  particular 
the  trade  situation  of  the  world.  He  mentioned 
that  he  did  not  desire  to  be  quoted  directly.  He 
had  not  been  "annoyed"  but  he  had  been  "dis 
tressed,"  he  said,  by  having  been  so  quoted  not 
long  ago.  The  top  button  of  his  coat  was  but 
toned.  His  cuffs  were  stiffly  starched.  He 
inclined  his  head  a  good  part  of  the  time  to  one 
side.  Sometimes  half  closed  his  eyelids.  Then 
would  open  them  very  wide,  and  make  an  out 
ward  gesture  with  his  hands,  accompanied  by 
something  like  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  Close 
up  I  was  struck  by  the  bushiness  of  his  eyebrows. 
He  wore  a  single  ring,  mounting  a  rather  large 
light  stone.  No  pin  to  his  tie.  He  swung  back 
ward  and  forward  on  his  feet.  Put  on  shell- 
rimmed  nose  glasses  to  read.  Sometimes  pursed 
his  lips  slowly.  As  he  talked  absently  rolled  a 
small  piece  of  paper  he  had  picked  up  from  his 
desk  into  the  shape  of  a  cigarette.  His  talk  had 
a  slightly  oratorical  roll.  He  was  exceedingly 
patient  and  exceedingly  courteous.  His  general 
[310] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

atmosphere  was  one  of  deep  kindness.     In  con 
clusion  he  said,  "Glad  to  see  you  again." 

"That's  pretty  nice,"  was  the  comment  of  one 
of  the  newspaper  men  as  we  emerged  from  his 
presence. 

As  we  moved  away  through  the  grounds  my 
friend  dilated  on  a  somewhat  whimsical  idea  of 
his.  This  was  to  this  effect.  In  motion  picture 
plays  (my  friend  insisted)  kings  were  always 
much  more  kingly  in  appearance  and  manner 
than  any  modern  king  would  be  likely  to  be.  But 
(he  declared)  it  would  be  very  difficult  for  a 
motion  picture  concern  to  get  hold  of  any  actor 
to  play  the  part  who  would  look  so  much  like 
an  American  President  as  President  Harding. 

We  stopped  in  to  look  at  the  east  room,  now 
again  open.  A  character  who  had  evidently  not 
been  born  in  any  of  the  capitols  of  Europe  was 
admiring  the  place  vastly.  He  looked  with  espe 
cial  approval  at  the  enormous  chandeliers,  those 
great  showers,  or  regular  storms,  of  glass. 
"Pretty  hard  to  beat,"  was  his  patriotic  com 
ment. 

in 

It's  a  big  old  building,  dark  inside,  the  Wash 
ington  Post  Office.  He  looked  like  some  sort  of 

[311] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

a  guard  about  the  premises  who  was  too  tired  to 
stand  up  and  so  did  his  guarding  sitting  in  a 
chair.  My  friend  had  got  so  accustomed  to 
inquiring  our  way  to  the  office  of  Secretary 
Hughes,  and  of  Secretary  Weeks,  and  so  on, 
that  he  asked  where  we  would  find  Secretary 
Hays. 

The  man  looked  at  us  very  contemptuously. 
"The  Postmaster  General?"  at  length  he 
boomed.  Well,  he  was  on  the  fifth  floor.  As 
we  stepped  from  the  car  my  friend  remarked  on 
the  practice  universal  in  Washington  of  men 
removing  their  hats  when  in  the  presence  of 
women  in  elevators. 

Our  appointment  was  for  ten  o'clock.  We  had 
got  quite  used,  however,  to  waiting  an  hour  or 
so  for  the  gentlemen  we  sought  to  see.  Several 
other  callers  were  ahead  of  us  here,  and  we  sat 
down  in  the  outer  office  when  we  had  presented 
our  cards  to  a  very  kind  and  attentive  young  man 
who  appeared  to  be  in  charge. 

Within  a  very  few  minutes,  however,  we  were 

ushered  round  into  a  secluded  inner  office.  "The 

General,"  the  young  man  said,  "will  be  in  in  a 

moment.    He  sees  them  in  two  different  rooms 

[312] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

at  the  same  time."    This  large  room  was  entirely- 
bare  of  painting  or  other  decorations. 

Speaking  of  decorations  reminds  me  of  the 
striking  handsomeness  of  the  Cabinet  officers  we 
had  so  far  been  seeing.  Beginning  with  the 
President  himself  (prize  winner  of  the  lot  in  this 
respect)  the  spectacle  of  this  Administration  had 
up  to  this  moment  been  a  regular  beauty  show. 

The  physiognomy  of  Mr.  Hays,  of  course, 
strikes  a  somewhat  different  note  in  the  picture. 
Though  he  is  not,  I  should  say,  as  funny  looking 
as  some  of  his  pictures  suggest. 

He  fairly  leaped  into  the  room.  Spidery 
figure.  Calls  you  by  your  last  name  without  the 
prefix  of  Mister.  Very,  very  earnest  in  effect. 
Xo  questions  necessary  to  get  him  started.  He 
began  at  once  to  talk.  Poured  forth  a  steady 
stream  of  rapid  utterance.  Denounced  the  idea 
of  labor  as  a  "commodity."  Said:  "We  have  a 
big  job  here.  Three  hundred  thousand  em 
ployees.  Millions  of  customers.  I  think  we  can 
do  it  all  right,  though.  But  our  people  in  the 
department  all  over  the  country  everywhere  must 
be  made  to  feel  that  a  human  spirit  is  behind 
them.  It's  in  the  heart  that  the  battle's  won. 
It's  because  of  the  spirit  behind  them  whether 

[313} 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

our  men  throw  a  letter  on  the  floor  before  a  door 
or  put  it  through  the  door."  Made  a  gesture 
with  his  hands  illustrating  putting  a  letter 
through  a  door.  Looked  very  hard  at  the  very 
clean  top  of  his  desk  much  of  the  time  as  he 
talked.  Now  and  then  looked  very  straight 
indeed  at  us.  Gave  us  a  generous  amount  of  his 
time.  At  length  arose  very  briskly. 

Routed  us  out  around  through  some  side  way. 
Had  a  private  elevator  concealed  somewhere  in  a 
dark  corner.  Turned  us  over  to  the  colored  man 
in  charge  of  it  with  the  request,  "Won't  you 
please  take  my  friends  down?" 

As  we  were  crossing  the  street  we  ran  into  our 
old  friend  from  New  York  who  edits  a  very 
flourishing  women's  magazine.  Down  here,  he 
said,  to  get  an  article  from  Mrs.  Harding.  Had 
found  her  altogether  willing  to  supply  him  with 
an  article,  but  in  so  much  of  a  flutter  with  her 
new  activities  that  she  didn't  see  her  way  to 
finding  time  soon  to  write  it.  What,  we 
asked,  was  the  article  to  be  about?  Well,  Mrs. 
Harding's  idea  was  to  revive  all  the  old  tradi 
tions  of  the  White  House.  And  what  were  those 
traditions?  Mrs.  Harding  hadn't  said  beyond 
the  custom  of  Easter  egg-rolling. 
[314] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

We  were  on  our  way  over  to  see  Assistant 
Secretary  of  the  Navy  Roosevelt.  He  is  not  in 
the  State,  Army  and  Navy  building  where  Mr. 
Denby  is,  but  some  ten  minutes'  walk  away,  in 
the  long,  rather  fragile  looking  Navy  Depart 
ment  building  constructed  during  the  War. 

Here  numerous  gold-braided  officers  continu 
ally  come  and  go.  The  building  is  filled  with 
very  beautiful  models  of  fighting  ships.  At  one 
side  of  Roosevelt's  door  is  a  model  of  the  San 
Diego,  at  the  other  side  a  "sample  U.  S.  Navy 
Patrol  Boat." 

As  we  gave  him  our  cards  a  young  man  asked 
us  if  we  knew  "the  Colonel."  An  old  Washing 
ton  newspaper  man  had  told  us  that  morning, 
"He  will  go  far  under  his  own  hat."  Several  very 
large  men,  also  waiting,  were  smoking  very  large 
cigars  while  we  waited.  While  all  male  visitors 
to  public  offices  in  Washington  appear  to  smoke 
continually,  those  in  government  positions  appar 
ently  do  not  smoke  during  office  hours.  And 
government  business  hours  there  seem  to  be  queer. 
The  Senate  goes  into  session  at  just  about  lunch 
time.  The  President  seems  to  be  around  in  his 
business  office  throughout  the  whole  of  the  mid 
dle  of  the  day.  And  the  office  of  the  Secretary 

[315] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

of  State  telephones  you  at  six  o'clock  Saturday 
night. 

The  young  man  showed  us  in.  Mr.  Roosevelt 
arose  from  his  desk,  shook  hands  very  cordially, 
said  "How  do  you  do?"  sat  down  again  and  at 
the  moment  said  nothing  further.  It  was  up  to 
us  to  swing  the  conversation.  So  my  friend 
launched  out :  We  had  nothing  to  do  with  affairs 
of  state,  had  no  design  to  interview  him  as  to 
naval  matters,  simply  were  curious  to  see  if  we 
should  find  him  eating  an  apple  and  wearing 
white  sox,  or  what.  With  hearty  good  nature, 
Mr.  Roosevelt  replied  that  he  was  not  eating  an 
apple  because  he  did  not  have  one  to  eat,  and  that 
he  had  only  once  worn  white  sox,  woolen  ones, 
when  a  boy  at  school. 

He  was  very  neatly  dressed  in  a  suit  of  quiet 
dark  material,  wore  rich  dark  red  tie,  with  a  stick 
pin  to  it.  Curiously  weather  beaten  looking 
complexion.  As  he  has  just  published  a  book  we 
asked  him  if  he  intended  to  carry  on  more  or  less 
of  a  literary  career  together  with  his  public  life. 
He  said,  well,  perhaps  more  or  less.  But  he 
wouldn't  have  time  for  much  such  work.  He 
"practised"  writing  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays, 
but  mainly  for  the  purpose  of  attaining  to  clear- 
[316] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

ness  in  expressing  himself.  He  insisted  that  the 
great  bulk  of  his  father's  writing  had  been  done 
before  the  full  course  of  his  political  activities 
and  after  he  had  retired  from  them. 

After  we  had  arisen  to  go  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  room  with  us,  with  a  somewhat  arm-in 
arm  effect.  Declared  we  should  know  a  friend 
of  his  up  in  Boston,  because  we'd  "like  him." 
Said  to  look  in  on  him  again  any  time  when  in 
Washington.  Very  affable  young  man. 

We  went  out  on  S  Street  to  see  Wilson's  new 
house.  Handsome  enough  structure,  but,  unde- 
tached  from  the  building  next  door  and  fronting 
directly  on  the  sidewalk,  we  decided  that  it  looked 
somewhat  more  like  a  club  than  like  a  private 
residence.  Were  told  later  that  the  part  of  that 
house  to  look  at  is  the  back  of  it,  as  there  are 
wonderful  gardens  there. 

One  cannot  fail  to  note  in  the  numerous  art 
shops  where  pictures  of  Harding,  Roosevelt, 
Washington,  Lincoln  and  Cleveland  are  dis 
played  in  abundance  the  relative  absence  of  pic 
tures  of  Wilson. 

Why  do  august  statesmen  in  the  lobby  of  the 
New  Willard  cross  their  legs  so  that  we  can  see 
that  their  shoes  need  to  be  half -soled?  Why  do 

[317] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

so  many  distinguished  looking  gentlemen  in 
Washington  wear  their  overcoats  as  though 
they  were  sleeveless  capes?  What  on  earth  do 
so  many  Oklahoma  looking  characters  do  in 
Washington?  Why  is  it  that  there  the  masses 
do  not,  as  in  New  York  and  Chicago  and  Los 
Angeles,  stroll  about  at  night? 

We  stopped  in  again  at  the  executive  office 
of  the  White  House.  Remarkable  number  of 
doormen  there  got  up  somewhat  like  policemen, 
so  that  you  repeatedly  have  to  explain  yourself 
all  over  again.  Man  new  to  us  on  today.  Sus 
piciously  asked  our  names.  Then  (though  what 
just  our  names  could  have  meant  to  him  I  can 
not  see)  shook  hands  with  immense  friendliness, 
and  told  us  his  name. 

Quite  a  throng  waiting.  Busy  hum  all  about. 
Different  crowd  from  usual.  Hardly  any 
reporters.  Old  gentlemen.  Stout  red-faced 
fellows  with  large  black  slouch  hats.  Several 
youngish  women  with  very  generous  bosom  dis 
plays.  Some  sort  of  a  delegation,  apparently. 
We  did  not  make  out  just  what.  But  the  scene 
somewhat  suggested  a  meeting  of  the  Los 
Angeles  branch  of  the  Ohio  Society.  At  length 
[318] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

the  company  lines  up.  We  trail  in  through  with 
the  rest. 

The  President,  looming  in  the  centre  of  his 
office,  shakes  hands  with  each  caller  in  turn,  in 
a  manner  of  paternal  affection.  Holds  your 
hand  very  gently  within  his  for  a  considerable 
while.  Rather  odd  position  he  takes  when  shak 
ing  hands.  Right  shoulder  lifted.  Looks 
(though  I  felt  that  he  was  unconscious  of  this 
effect)  somewhat  like  a  pose  that  a  painter  might 
put  his  model  into  when  about  to  paint  him 
shaking  hands. 

He  bent  over  us  in  a  very  fatherly  fashion. 
Said,  yes,  yes,  he  had  got  our  letters  while  in  the 
South.  Which  was  quite  a  mistake,  as  we  hadn't 
written  him  any  letters.  But  his  kindly  intention 
was  quite  unmistakable. 

IV 

Senator  New's  secretary,  in  his  room  on  the 
second  floor  of  the  Senate  Office  building,  was 
opening  a  wooden  box  that  had  come  by  mail. 
No;  he  wasn't  exactly  opening  this  box,  either. 
He  was  looking  at  it  suspiciously  and  cautiously 
tipping  it  from  side  to  side.  "Feels  like  it  was  a 
snake,"  he  said  fearsomely.  "Soft,  live-like 

[319] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

weight  in  there.  I  don't  believe  I'll  open  it.  You 
see,"  indicating  the  stamps,  "it's  from  India, 
too." 

"But  why  would  anybody  be  sending  Senator 
New  a  snake?"  inquired  my  friend. 

"Goodness  gracious!  We  get  lots  of  things 
just  as  queer  as  snakes,"  replied  Mr.  Winter. 
"I  guess  the  Senator  must  be  coming  in  pretty 
soon,"  he  remarked,  glancing  about.  "So  many 
people  coming  in,"  he  added,  and  continued: 
"It's  a  remarkable  thing.  Visitors  seem  to  have 
some  sort  of  psychic  knowledge  of  when  the 
Senator  will  be  in.  Same  way  out  in  Indiana 
polis,  we  could  always  tell  when  Tom  Taggart 
was  likely  to  be  back  soon  from  French  Lick — 
so  many  people  (who  couldn't  have  heard  from 
him)  looking  for  him  at  the  Denizen  House." 

"Everybody,"  someone  observed,  "always 
comes  to  Washington  at  least  once  a  year."  All 
United-Statesians,  at  any  rate,  one  would  say 
looking  about  the  city,  probably  do.  And  among 
visiting  United-Statesians  not  habitually  seen  in 
such  profusion  elsewhere  one  would  certainly 
include,  Indians,  Mormons,  Porto-Ricans,  Civil 
War  veterans,  pedagogues,  octogenarians,  vege 
tarians,  Virginians,  Creoles,  pastors,  suffragettes, 
[320] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

honey mooners,  aunts,  portly  ladies  of  peculiar 
outline,  people  of  a  very  simple  past,  and  a 
remarkable  number  of  gentlemen  who  still  cling 
to  white  "lawn"  ties,  hard  boiled  shirts  and 
"Congress  shoes." 

Also,  of  course,  that  vast  congregation  of 
people  who  "want"  something  in  Washington. 
"What  are  you  looking  for  around  here?"  a 
remark  commonly  overheard  in  the  hotel  lobbies. 

But  there  are  other  American  cities  to  which 
"everybody"  goes,  too,  now  or  then,  though  the 
visitors  are  not  perhaps  so  recognizable.  Coming 
out  of  the  Capitol,  passing  through  the  grounds 
of  the  White  House,  what  do  you  frequently 
overhear?  Frequently  some  such  remark  as 
this:  "Haven't  you  ever  been  in  the  subway? 
To  the  Bronx?  When  you  go  back  you  certainly 
must  go  in  it." 

And  out  in  Los  Angeles  they  boastfully  tell 
you  that  one  way  in  which  Los  Angeles  "is  like 
New  York"  is  this:  That  whereas  a  man  may 
or  may  not  happen  to  go  to  Richmond  or  to 
Detroit,  sooner  or  later  you  are  bound  to  see  him 
on  the  streets  of  Los  Angeles.  That,  as  I  say, 
is  what  they  tell  you  out  there. 

But  what  are  those  aspects  of  Washington 

[321] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

which  are  peculiar  to  that  city,  and  make  it  so 
unlike  any  other  city  in  the  United  States  ?  And 
which  in  some  cases  make  it  an  influence  for  the 
bad  to  many  of  its  visitors?  And  which  in  some 
cases  it  is  so  strange  should  be  the  aspect  of 
such  a  city? 

For  one  thing,  the  first  thing  which  must  strike 
any  stranger  to  the  city  is  the  enormous  extent 
of  the  souvenir  business  there.  It  is  perhaps 
natural  enough  that  this  should  be  so,  and  that 
souvenir  shops  should  range  themselves  in  an 
almost  unbroken  stretch  for  miles.  What  is  not 
altogether  so  easy  to  answer  is  why  nearly  all 
of  the  souvenirs  should  be  the  kind  of  souvenirs 
they  are. 

Printed  portraits  of  the  present  President  and 
of  former  Presidents,  and  plaster  busts  of  these 
personages,  of  course.  That  many  of  the  articles 
for  "remembrance"  should  be  touched  with  a 
patriotic  design,  of  course,  too.  But  why  today 
should  so  many  millions  of  the  "souvenir  spoons" 
(with  the  Capitol  in  relief  on  the  bowl) ,  the  "hand 
painted"  plates  (presenting  a  comic  valentine 
likeness  of  George  Washington),  the  paper 
weights  (with  a  delirious  lithograph  of  the 
Library  of  Congress  showing  through),  the 
[322] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

"napkin  rings5"  butter  knives,  and  so  on  and  so 
on — why  should  such  millions  of  these  things  be 
precisely  in  the  style  of  such  articles  proudly  dis 
played  in  the  home  of  my  grandmother  when  I 
was  a  boy  in  the  Middle  West  ? 

Outside  of  Washington,  as  far  as  I  know  in 
the  world,  any  considerable  exhibition  of  wares 
so  reminiscent  of  the  taste  of  the  past  can  only 
be  found  along  the  water  fronts  of  a  city  where 
men  of  ships  shop.  And  there,  along  water 
fronts,  you  always  find  that  same  idea  of  orna 
ment. 

Another  thing.  Where  in  Washington  are 
shops  where  real  art  is  sold — paintings  of 
reputable  character  and  rare  specimens  of 
antique  furniture  ?  They  may  be  there ;  I  do  not 
swear  that  they  are  not,  but  they  are  remarkably 
difficult  to  find. 

Painting  reminds  me.  The  Corcoran  Gallery 
is,  of  course,  a  justly  famous  museum  of  art. 
But  a  minor  museum,  containing  no  Old  Masters, 
but  an  excellent  collection  of  American  painting, 
particularly  excellent  in  its  representation  of 
the  period  immediately  preceding  the  present, 
the  period  of  the  men  called  our  impressionist 
painters.  Its  best  canvas,  I  should  say,  is  the 

[323] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

painting  by  John  H.  Twachtman,  called  (I 
believe)  "The  Waterfall."  My  point  is,  that 
visitors  there  certainly  are  seeing  what  they  are 
supposed  to  be  seeing  there — art. 

What  I  am  coming  to  (and  I  do  not  know 
why  someone  does  not  come  to  it  oftener)  is  this: 
That  hordes  of  people  who  come  to  Washington 
will  look  at  with  wonder  as  something  fine  any 
thing  which  is  shown  to  them.  The  numerous 
beautiful  works  of  architecture — to  which  is  now 
added  the  very  noble  Lincoln  Memorial — they 
see,  and  probably  derive  something  from.  But 
the  cultural  benefits  of  their  visits  to  their  Mecca 
of  patriotic  interest  must  be  weirdly  distorted 
when  they  are  led  gaping  through  the  Capitol 
and  are  charged  twenty-five  cents  apiece  to  be 
told  by  a  guard  who  knows  as  much  about  paint 
ings  as  an  ashman  a  quantity  of  imbecile  facts 
about  prodigious  canvases  atrociously  bad  almost 
beyond  belief. 

The  Embarkation  of  the  Pilgrims  and  Wash 
ington  Resigning  his  Commission,  and  so  forth, 
indisputably  are  historic  moments  for  the  Ameri 
can  breast  to  recall  with  solemn  emotion.  And 
the  iniquity  of  these  paintings  here  to  minds 
uninstructed  in  works  of  art  is  that  by  reason  of 
[324] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

their  appeal  to  sentiments  of  love  of  country 
these  nightmares  of  ugliness  are  put  over  on  the 
visitor  as  standards  of  beauty. 

Still  speaking  (after  a  fashion)  of  "art," 
another  aspect  of  Washington  hits  the  eye.  And 
that  is  the  extremely  moral  note  here.  In  Los 
Angeles  (that  other  nation's  playground  of 
holiday  makers)  perhaps  even  more  picture 
cards  are  displayed  for  sale.  A  very  merry  lot 
of  pictures,  those  out  there — all  of  "California 
bathing  girls"  and  very  lightly  veiled  figures, 
limbs  rythmically  flashing  in  "Greek  dances." 
Such  picture  cards  of  gaiety  of  course  may  be 
found  in  windows  here  and  there  on  some  streets 
in  New  York  and  other  cities.  But  after  much 
window  gazing  I  fancy  that  anybody  bent  upon 
buying  such  things  in  Washington  would  have 
to  get  them  from  a  bootlegger  or  someone  like 
that. 

And  whereas,  as  I  recall,  in  other  centres  of 
urban  life,  and  especially  on  the  Pacific  Coast, 
the  photographers'  exhibits  run  very  largely  to 
feminine  beauty  and  fashion,  in  photographers* 
windows  in  Washington,  you  will  note,  masculine 
greatness  dominates  the  scene. 

Speaking  of  photographers  and  such-like  sug- 

[325] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

gests  another  thing.  Let  us  come  at  the  matter 
in  this  way.  A  good  many  women  of  culture 
and  means,  I  understand,  choose  to  live  in  Wash 
ington;  probably  in  large  measure  because  the 
city  is  beautifully  laid  out,  because  it  is  a  pleasant 
size,  because  there  are  no  factories  and  subways 
there,  and  so  on.  We  know  that  numerous  retired 
statesmen  prefer  to  remain  there.  There  is 
society  of  the  embassies.  In  consideration  of  all 
this,  and  in  consideration  further  of  the  compara 
tively  large  leisure  there  for  an  American  city, 
you  would  suppose  that,  behind  the  transient 
population,  in  Washington,  a  highly  civilized  life 
went  on.  Very  well. 

True,  they  have  the  third  greatest  reference 
library  in  the  world  and  the  numerous  scholars 
associated  with  it.  But  where  do  the  people  buy 
their  books?  One  bookstore  of  fair  size.  An 
other  good  but  quite  small.  A  third  dealing 
mainly  in  second-hand  volumes.  Not  one  shop 
devoted  to  sets  in  fine  bindings,  first  editions, 
rare  items  and  such  things.  Though  in  Phila 
delphia,  for  instance,  there  is  one  of  the  finest 
(if  not  the  finest)  bookshops  dealing  in  rare 
books  anywhere  in  the  world.  In  San  Francisco 
[326] 


NOSING  'ROUND  WASHINGTON 

numerous  bookstores.  Larger  cities?  Yes  (as 
to  that  part  of  it) ,  of  course. 

But  it  does  seem  queer  that  not  a  single  news 
paper  in  Washington  runs  book  reviews  or 
prints  any  degree  at  all  of  literary  comment. 

Alluding  to  San  Francisco,  that  happy  dale 
of  the  bon-vivant,,  how  does  he  who  likes  good 
living  make  out  in  Washington,  unless  he  lives 
in  a  club,  an  embassy,  or  at  the  White  House? 
A  grand  public  market,  two  first-class  hotel 
dining-rooms,  and  many  fine  homes.  But  an 
earnest  seeker  after  eating  as  a  fine  art  could  find 
tucked  away  none  of  those  chop-houses  and  res 
taurants  to  dine  in  which  enlarge  the  soul  of 
man. 

But,  of  course,  perhaps  you  can't  have  every 
thing  at  once.  From  the  visitors'  gallery  the 
spectacle  of  the  Senate  in  active  session  is  a  game 
more  national  than  baseball.  "There  he  goes!" 
cries  one  ardent  spectator,  pointing  to  a  "home 
player,"  so  to  say,  moving  down  the  aisle. 
"That's  him!  Gettin'  along  pretty  good,  ain't 
he?" 


[327] 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

FAME:  A  STORY  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

$10,000! 
IN  PRIZES  FOR  SHORT  STORIES! 

You  have  a  story.  We  want  to  read  it.  Every 
human  life  has  one  great  story  in  it.  Every  man, 
every  woman,  has  at  least  one  story  to  tell. 

THIS  MEANS  YOU! 

From  your  experience,  from  your  own  heart  his 
tory,  you  can  draw  a  tale.  You  may  not  know  that 
you  can  write.  But  you  never  know  what  you  can 
do  until  you  try.  We  believe  there  are  thousands 
of  unwritten  little  masterpieces,  waiting  only  for 
the  right  encouragement  to  be  produced.  Here  is 
our  offer 

BENJAMIN  KEYES  drew  a  long  breath. 
"This   means   you" — there  was   no   doubt 
about  that.     These  printed  words  had  read  his 
heart.     He  felt  that  deep  was  answering  unto 
deep. 

A  brief   resume  of   his   life   passed  through 
Keyes's  mind.     And  he  was  touched,  as  never 
before,  by  the  romance  of  destiny.     He  had  not 
[328] 


FAME 

contrived  to  be  called  up  to  public  charges  or 
employments  of  dignity  or  power  in  the  world. 
When  OF  Necessity  had  tapped  him  on  the  shoul 
der  he  had  cut  his  scholastic  pursuits  short  of  col 
lege,  and  a  family  friend,  Dr.  Nevens,  had  got 
him  a  fifth-rate  job  in  a  third-rate  business  con 
cern.  Here  it  seemed  extremely  probable  that 
he  would  spend  a  good  many  of  his  days.  By 
the  continued  exercise  of  steadiness  of  character, 
diligence,  and  application,  he  might  hope,  as  Dr. 
Nevens  by  way  of  encouragement  occasionally 
pointed  out,  to  advance  at  the  rate  of  a  couple 
of  dollars  or  so  every  couple  of  years.  Clerkdom 
hedged  him  about  as  divinity  doth  a  king. 

The  city  directory  rated  him,  "B.  C.  Keyes, 
Clerk."  Should  he  be  killed  in  a  railway  acci 
dent,  chosen  as  a  juror,  or  arrested  for  homicide, 
the  newspapers  would  report  that  B.  C.  Keyes,  a 
clerk,  of  1120  Meredith  Street, — etc.  There  was, 
he  felt  when  he  looked  at  it  fairly,  no  way  out. 
In  the  "Americans  of  Today"  magazine  articles, 
men  rise  from  bootblacks  to  multi-millionaires, 
but  these  legends,  Keyes  felt  numbly,  had  about 
as  much  relation  to  his  own  life  as  the  hero  tales 
of  ancient  Greece.  His  lot  was  cast  in  the  bot 
tom  of  a  well 

[329] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

And  yet, — Keyes  had  been  considered  a  bright 
youngster  at  school;  he  regarded  himself  as  a 
rather  bright  young  man  now;  and  sometimes 
even  yet,  in  wayward,  impractical  moments,  he 
saw  in  his  mind  a  picture  of  himself  breaking 
away  from  the  field  (so  to  say)  and  coming 
rounding  into  the  home  stretch  to  bear  down  on 
a  grandstand  wild  with  applause.  He  bore  about 
within  him  a  subconscious  premonition,  as  it  were, 
which  apparently  would  not  die,  that  something 
remarkable  was  to  happen  to  him  sooner  or  later. 
An  unpleasant  circumstance  was  that  it  was  get 
ting  later  now  all  the  time.  Still  the  estimate 
of  his  worth  returned  to  him  by  life  did  not  rid 
him  of  the  belief  that  he  had  been  originally  in 
tended  by  his  Maker  for  higher  things  than  he 
had  found. 

When,  occasionally,  the  gloomy  contrast  of 
his  life  as  it  was  with  his  career  as  he  conceived 
it  had  been  meant  to  be  depressed  him  too  unto- 
wardly,  a  young  lady  whom  Keyes  called  Louise 
would  administer  spiritual  stimulants. 

Louise  was  a  very  clever  person,  and  she  knew 

a  superior  young  man  when  she  saw  one.     She 

did  not  care  for  your  common  men  at  all.     She 

was    intellectual.     She    read    everything,    her 

[330] 


FAME 

friends  said.  She  often  told  Keyes  that  he  ought 
to  write.  She  knew,  she  declared,  that  he  could 
write  better  than  most  of  the  people  who  did 
write. 

This  idea  of  writing  had,  now  and  then,  oc 
curred  to  Keyes  himself.  He  was  rather  fond,  in 
his  odd  hours,  of  reading  periodical  fiction,  which 
he  liked  to  discuss  with  serious  people  like  Louise. 
Sometimes  with  the  exhilaration  occasioned  by 
the  reading  of  a  particularly  good  story,  a  roman 
tic  impulse  to  express  himself  welled  up  in  him, 
and  then  evaporated.  Generally  in  these  in 
stances  he  wanted  to  write  a  kind  of  story  he 
had  just  read.  He  felt  the  glamour  of  the  life 
of  adventurous  tales.  He  thrilled  in  response 
to  the  note  struck  in  that  sort  of  romance  best 
exemplified,  perhaps,  in  one  of  his  favorites,  "The 
Man  Who  Would  Be  King."  Or  he  longed  to  be 
like  O.  Henry,  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  the  Town. 
But  there  \vas  one  sort  of  story  which  always  ig 
nited  in  his  mind  the  thought  that  he  really  did 
knew  a  story  of  his  own.  This  he  sometimes 
positively  yearned  to  tell.  This  the  advertise 
ment  had  put  its  finger  upon.  "Every  human 
life  has  one  great  story  in  it."  It  was  even  so. 
"From  your  own  heart  history  .  .  ." — Benja- 

[331] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

min  Keyes  felt  that  emotion  which  is  the  concep 
tion  of  a  work  of  art. 


He  was  pregnant  with  his  idea.  He  rose  from 
his  bed  betimes.  He  breathed  a  strangely  fra 
grant  air.  He  looked  at  the  beautiful  world.  He 
wrote.  He  mentioned  his  little  employment  to 
no  one :  he  felt  rather  ashamed  of  it,  in  fact ;  but 
it  infatuated  him.  He  encountered  some  awful 
tough  spots,  and  at  times  he  almost  despaired — 
but  he  could  not  give  up.  Something  within  him, 
which  he  himself  was  conscious  he  did  not  under 
stand,  tortured  him  to  go  on.  All  day  long, 
while  at  his  business,  his  meals,  his  shaving,  his 
story  turned  and  twisted  and  talked  in  the 
back  of  his  head.  Despair  alternated  with  exul 
tation.  At  hours  there  came  a  gusto  to  his  work ; 
words  that  he  had  heard  or  read,  forgotten  and 
never  used,  came  back  to  him  from  heaven  knows 
where,  and  sprang  to  his  pen  at  the  felicitous  in 
stance.  He  felt  that  his  mind  was  more  alert 
than  he  remembered  it  to  have  ever  been;  he  felt 
that  his  eyes  were  brighter;  his  hands,  his  whole 
right  arm,  felt  strong.  He  knew  as  he  worked 
that  this  was  character,  and  this  was  sentiment, 
[332] 


FAME 

and  this  was  humor.  He  was  shaken  by  the  res 
piration  of  a  heady  drama.  He  felt  that  this — 
was  almost  genius!  And  he  was  aghast  that  he 
had  lived  such  a  dull  life  hitherto  when  this  ca 
pacity  had  been  in  him. 

He  possessed  little  theoretic  knowledge  of 
writing;  his  story  grew  naturally,  like  a  tree:  he 
was  intelligent,  and  he  had  a  story  to  tell  which 
must  be  told.  In  the  matter  of  technical  con 
struction  he  followed  in  a  general  way,  intuitively, 
unconsciously  for  the  most  part,  without  elab 
orate  examination,  the  form  of  a  short  story  as 
he  was  acquainted  with  it  through  his  reading  of 
stories.  He  wandered  alone  at  night,  oblivious 
of  anything  else,  thinking,  thinking  his  story 
over;  and  he  felt  good  in  his  brain  and  in  his 
heart  and  in  his  stomach.  He  felt  virile,  elated, 
full  of  power,  and  strangely  happy.  The  joy  of 
creating  a  thing  of  art  was  upon  him.  Thrills 
ran  down  his  spine  and  into  his  legs;  he  would 
grin  to  himself  in  the  dark  streets ;  and  sometimes 
he  laughed  aloud.  Everything  else  he  neglected. 
He  could  not  even  read  the  newspapers ;  he  stayed 
at  home  two  days  from  business ;  he  worked  early 
and  late,  and  walked  up  and  down,  throbbing, 
meantimes. 

[333] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

The  story  was  almost  finished.  The  story  was 
finished.  What  would  Louise  say?  Would  she 
think  that  he  ought  not  to  have  written,  ought 
not  to  make  public,  so  intimate  a  history  ?  Then 
in  the  story  he  had  carried  things  further  than 
they  were  in  fact:  the  artistic  instinct  had  for 
mally  plighted  the  lovers'  troth.  He  thought 
of  submitting  his  manuscript  without  showing 
it  to  Louise.  Would  it  not  be  fine  for  her  to 
discover  the  story  in  print!  But  Keyes  had  to 
read  that  story  to  someone  or  blow  up. 


His  evening  with  Louise  began  awkwardly. 
The  pleasant  interchange  of  being  did  not,  as 
usually  so  happily  it  did  with  Louise,  flow  natur 
ally  along.  Keyes  was  accustomed  to  feel  that 
with  Louise  he  talked  better  than  before  anyone 
else.  He  now  and  then  wished  that  certain  other 
people,  upon  whom  he  felt  he  had  not  made  so 
favorable  an  impression  as  he  deserved,  could 
overhear  him  sometime  with  Louise.  Now,  cu 
riously,  with  her  he  felt  as  he  had  with  them :  he 
could  not  somehow  get  his  real  machinery  started. 
Three  or  four  times  he  determined  to  embark 
upon  the  subject  in  his  mind,  and  as  many  times 
[334] 


FAME 

the  rising  fulness  in  his  chest  and  the  sudden  quiv 
ering  of  his  heart  daunted  him.  As  he  looked  now 
at  Louise,  sitting  there  before  him,  the  dignity  of 
her  as  a  young  woman  struck  him,  and  it  occurred 
to  him  as  extraordinary  that  he  could  have  been 
so  intimate  with  her.  He  about  concluded  to 
put  off  his  story  until  another  time,  at  which  im 
mediately  he  felt  much  relieved. 

His  gaze  wandered  about  among  the  familiar 
objects  of  the  little  parlor — the  ordinary  articles 
of  the  family  furniture,  the  photographs  on  the 
mantel,  the  hand-painted  plate  on  the  wall, — then 
rested  upon  the  framed  Maxfield  Parrish,  which 
Keyes  knew,  with  a  glow  of  pride,  to  express  the 
superior  refinement  of  Louise's  own  taste. 
Keyes  shared  Louise's  interest  in  art;  he  knew, 
and  very  much  admired,  the  work  of  Dulac, 
James  Montgomery  Flagg,  N.  C.  Wyeth,  Ar 
thur  Keller,  and  many  others ;  this  was  one  of  the 
fascinating  bonds  which  united  them,  in  division 
from  a  frivolous,  material,  and  unsympathetic 
world.  He  glanced  again  now  at  the  sumptu 
ous  Rackham  book  on  the  table,  which  it  had 
been  such  a  delight  to  him  to  give  her  at  Christ 
mas;  and  the  revived  discussion  of  aesthetics  led 
him  fairly  comfortably  into  the  subject  of  his 

[335] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN, 

own  entrance  into  work  in  that  field.  His  man 
uscript  came  out  of  his  pocket;  and,  straighten 
ing  up  on  the  edge  of  his  chair,  a  little  nervous 
again  in  the  still  pause  that  ensued,  he  cleared 
his  throat,  and,  in  a  rather  diffident  voice,  began 
to  read.  As  he  proceeded  and  knew  that  his  ef 
fort  found  favor,  his  want  of  confidence  left 
him.  He  fell  into  the  swing  and  color  of  his 
work ;  and  the  heart  of  it  he  tasted  like  fine  wine 
as  he  read.  In  the  more  moving  passages  his 
voice  shook  a  trifle,  and  tears  very  nearly  came 
into  his  eyes;  it  was  all,  he  felt,  so  beautiful. 
When  he  had  concluded  there  was  in  Louise's 
eyes — as  he  looked  up,  and  saw  her  sitting,  lean 
ing  forward  with  her  chin  on  the  back  of  her 
hand,  her  elbow  on  her  knee, — a  strange  light.  It 
occurred  to  Keyes  that  he  did  not  remember  ever 
to  have  seen  a  woman's  face  look  exactly  that  way 
before.  Probably  not.  This  was  a  light  some  men 
never  find  on  land  or  sea.  It  does  not  shine  for 
any  man  more  than  once  or  twice.  They  sat 
awhile,  these  two  in  the  little  parlor,  and  happi 
ness  roared  through  their  veins.  Louise  told 
Keyes  that  she  had  always  known  that  he  "had 
it  in  him." 

Then  they  arose,  and  they  were  near  to  each 
[336] 


FAME 

other,  and  their  hearts  were  filled,  and  beneath 
the  chandelier  he  moved  his  arms  about  her. 
His  lips  clasped  hers.     It  was  thus  as  it  was  r 
the  story. 

Keyes  emerged  from  the  brightly  lighted  door 
way  with  Louise  beaming  tenderly  after  him.  In 
his  blissful  abstraction  of  mind  he  neglected,  on 
the  dark  porchway,  to  turn  the  corner  of  the 
house  to  the  steps;  but  walked  instead,  straight 
ahead,  until  the  world  gave  way  beneath  him, 
and  he  collapsed  with  a  crash  among  the  young 
vines. 

The  next  week  Louise,  who  held  a  position  in 
the  "Nickel's  Weekly"  Circulation  Branch  of 
fice  in  the  Middle  West,  neatly  typed  the  manu 
script  on  one  of  the  firm's  machines.  One  eve 
ning  they  went  together  to  post  the  story.  .  .  . 
The  ancient,  imperturbable  moon  observed  this 
momentous  deed. 


When  Keyes  put  that  manuscript  into  the 
mail  box,  he  knew  that  it  would  be  accepted.  He 
felt  this  in  his  bones.  He  felt  it  in  the  soles  of  his 
feet  and  in  the  hair  on  his  head. 

For  several  days  succeeding,  a  sensuous  com- 

[337] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

placency  pervaded  young  Keyes.  In  a  rich  haze 
he  saw  himself  acclaimed,  famous,  adored.  His 
nature  was  ardent,  and  he  had  always  craved  the 
warmth  of  approbation ;  but  he  had  not  had  it,  ex 
cept  from  Louise.  Now  there  were  moments 
when,  in  a  picture  in  his  mind,  he  saw  an  attrac 
tive  figure,  which  he  recognized  as  himself  some 
what  altered,  come  jauntily  along,  amiably  smil 
ing,  swinging  a  cane.  He  had  always  secretly 
desired  very  much  to  carry  a  cane,  but  he  had 
felt  uncomfortably  that  the  humbleness  of  his 
position  in  life  would  make  this  ridiculous.  In 
his  moments  of  ambition  he  had  hoped,  sometimes, 
that  walking-sticks  would  not  go  out  (to  put  it 
so)  before  he  came  in.  In  the  background  of  his 
mental  picture  Keyes  recognized  among  the  do 
ting  multitude  the  faces  of  about  all  of  his  ac 
quaintances,  some  brought  for  the  occasion  from 
rather  remote  places. 

Keyes  felt  a  slight  wrench  of  conscience  in 
winking  at  this  poetic  liberty  taken  with  realistic 
probability.  When  a  name  occurred  to  him  the 
physiognomy  of  whose  person  was  absent, 
Keyes's  sense  of  probity  was  smothered,  with  a 
slight  twinge  of  pain,  by  the  ardor  of  his  imagi 
nation;  and  place  in  the  press  was  found  for  this 
[338] 


FAME 

person,  very  kindly  well  up  in  front,  where  a  good 
view  could  be  had  by  him  of  the  celebrity — at 
this  point  the  celebrity  in  the  delectable  vision  was 
observed  gaily  to  light  a  cigarette.  Discernible 
in  the  throng,  too,  were  some  few  whose  mean 
and  envious  natures  writhed,  the  psychologist 
in  Keyes  perceived,  at  this  handsome  recognition 
of  the  worth  of  a  young  man  it  had  once  been  their 
wont  to  snub. 

In  this  balmy  temper  of  mind  Keyes  got  down 
to  business  one  morning  a  little  late.  The  hum 
drum  of  a  business  life  had  begun  to  be  some 
what  more  irksome  than  hitherto  to  Keyes's  swell 
ing  spirit.  He  ruminated  this  morning,  as  he 
stood  before  his  tall  stool  at  his  ledger,  on  the 
curious  ill-adjustment  of  a  universe  so  arranged 
that  one  of  his  capacity  for  finer  things  could  re 
main  so  unsuspected  of  the  world  about  him,  and 
the  rich  value  of  his  life  to  some  unmeaning  task 
work  be  allowed  to  give.  A  sudden  electric  buzz 
ing  beneath  his  high  desk  signalled  him  that  his 
presence  was  desired  by  his  chief.  "What  now?" 
he  thought,  a  little  tremulously  and  a  little  irri 
tably,  as  he  went :  he  had  been  caught  up  on  sev 
eral  slips  lately.  He  paused  respectfully  in  the 
private  office  doorway.  Mr.  Winder,  from  his 

[339] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

swivel-chair,  flashed  up  his  white  moustache  very 
straight  at  Keyes.  "Sit  down,"  he  directed. 
The  suavity  which  was  his  habit  was  quite  absent. 
Keyes  felt  the  presence  in  the  air  of  a  good  deal 
of  masculine  firmness. 

"This,"  said  Mr.  Winder,  his  eye  steadily  on 
Keyes,  "is  a  place  of  business.  It  is  not  a  gentle 
man's  club.  Now,  I  want  you  to  take  a  brace. 
That  will  do." 

As  Keyes  took  up  his  pen  again  and  began  to 
write,  "By  merchandise,"  his  breast  was  full  with 
resentment:  a  sense  of  the  real  integrity  of  his 
nature  welled  up  in  him.  His  mind  rapidly  gen 
erated  the  divers  manly  replies  he  wished,  with  an 
intensity  amounting  to  pain,  he  had  thought  of  a 
moment  before.  He  saw  himself,  now  exasperat- 
ingly  too  late,  saying  with  frank  honesty  to  Mr. 
Winder: 

"I  realize  that  I  have  of  late  been  a  little  de 
linquent.  But  (with  some  eloquence)  it  has  al 
ways  been  my  intention  to  be,  and  I  believe  in  the 
main  I  have  been,  a  faithful  and  conscientious 
employee.  I  shall  not  be  found  wanting  again." 

But  here  he  was  a  rebuked  culprit.  He  felt 
the  degradation  of  servitude.  He  experienced 
sharply  that  violent  yearning  so  familiar  to  all 
[340] 


FAME 

that  are  employed  everywhere,  to  be  able  to  go 
in  and  tell  Mr.  Winder  to  go  to  the  devil.  And 
though  he  felt  at  bottom  the  legitimacy,  in  the 
business  ethic,  of  Mr.  Winder's  attitude,  he  also 
felt  forlornly  the  coldness  of  the  business  rela 
tion,  the  brutal  authority  of  worldly  power,  and 
its  conception  of  his  insignificance.  And  he  was 
stung  at  the  moral  criminality,  as  he  felt  it  to 
be,  of  a  situation  which  placed  such  a  man  as  Mr. 
Winder  over  such  a  nature  as  his  own;  Mr. 
Winder  he  did  not  suppose  had  read  a  book  with 
in  the  last  ten  years. 

As,  at  that  hour  which  sets  the  weary  toiler 
free,  in  the  gathering  dusk  Keyes  stood  on  the 
curb  amid  the  hurrying  throng  homeward  bound, 
—oh!  how  he  longed  for  that  establishment  in  the 
-eyes  of  men  which  the  success  of  his  story  would 
bring  him.  Oh,  when  would  he  hear!  As  he 
bowled  along  in  the  crowded  trolley  the  thought 
stole  through  him,  until  it  amounted  almost  to  a 
conviction,  that  the  great  letter  awaited  him  at 
home  now.  He  could  hardly  bear  the  tedium  of 
the  short  journey.  Restlessly  he  turned  his  eve 
ning  paper. 

In  him  had  developed  of  late  a  great  interest 
in  authors ;  he  peered  between  the  pages,  a  little 

[341] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

sheepishly,  at  the  column,  "Books  and  Their 
Makers."  He  read  that  Mr.  So  and  So,  the 
author  of  "This  and  That,"  was  a  young  man 
thirty  years  of  age.  Instantly  he  reflected  that 
he  himself  was  but  twenty-seven.  This  was  en 
couraging!  He  had  formed  a  habit  recently  of 
contrasting  at  once  any  writer's  age  with  his 
own.  If  he  learned  that  Mr.  Galsworthy,  whose 
books  were  much  advertised  but  which  he  had  not 
read,  was  forty-something,  he  wanted  to  know 
how  old  he  had  been  when  he  wrote  his  first  book. 
Then  he  counted  up  the  number  of  books  between 
that  time — comparing  his  age  at  that  time  with 
his  own — and  now.  He  was  absorbed  in  the  lit 
erary  gossip  of  the  day.  That  Myra  Kelly  had 
been  a  schoolteacher,  that  Gertrude  Atherton 
lived  in  California,  that  Mr.  Bennett  had  turned 
thirty  before  he  published  his  first  book,  that  such 
a  writer  was  in  Rome,  or  that  some  other  one  was 
engaged  on  a  new  work  said  to  be  about  the  Rus 
sian  Jews, — he  found  very  interesting.  He  read 
in  his  newspaper  the  publishers'  declaration  that 
Maurice  Hewlett's  new  creation  recalled  Don 
Quixote,  Cyrano,  d'Artagnan,  Falstaff,  Bom- 
bastes  Furioso,  Tartarin,  Gil  Bias.  His  notions 
concerning  the  characters  of  this  company  were 
[342] 


FAME 

somewhat  vague ;  but  he  was  stirred  with  an  am 
bition  to  create  some  such  character,  too. 

On  leaving  the  car  whom  should  he  see  but  Dr. 
Xevens.  They  walked  along  together.  Dr. 
N  evens  inquired  about  the  business.  A  bad  year, 
he  surmised,  for  trade.  Trade!  Keyes  felt  his 
heart  thumping  with  the  temptation  to  confide 
the  adventures  of  his  literary  life ;  which,  indeed, 
he  had  found  exceedingly  difficult  to  keep  so 
much  to  himself.  But  his  position  gave  him  clair 
voyance  :  he  divined  that  no  sort  of  ambition  re 
ceives  from  people  in  general  so  little  respect, 
by  some  curious  idiosyncrasy  of  the  human  mind, 
as  literary  aspiration.  With  what  coarse  and 
withering  scorn  had  an  intimation — which  had 
escaped  him — that  he  had  sought  to  give  some 
artistic  articulation  to  his  ideas  been  met  by 
Pimpkins  the  other  day  at  the  office ! 

The  personality  of  Dr.  Nevens,  however,  sug 
gested  a  more  sympathetic  attitude,  by  reason  of 
the  dentist's  cultivation.  Dr.  Nevens  was  spoken 
of  as  a  "booklover."  He  had  a  "library" — it  was, 
he  implied,  his  bachelor  foible — the  cornerstone 
of  which  was  a  set  of  the  Thistle  edition  of  Ste 
venson  that  he  had  bought  by  subscription  from 
an  agent.  (Keyes  had  thought  it  odd  one  day 

[343] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

that  Dr.  Nevens  had  not  cut  the  leaves.)  And 
"the  doctor"  was  fond  of  speaking  familiarly  of 
Dickens,  and  gained  much  admiration  by  his 
often  saying  that  he  should  like — had  he  time — 
to  read  through  "Esmond"  once  every  year. 
Here,  Keyes  felt,  would  be  spiritual  succor. 

But  Keyes  quickly  learned  that  he  was  quite  in 
a  different  case  from  the  author  of  "Esmond." 
Dr.  Nevens  was  kind,  but  pitying. 

"Only  one  out  of  hundreds,  thousands,"  he 
said,  "ever  comes  to  anything." 

It  did  not  occur  to  him,  Keyes  thought,  as  with 
in  the  range  of  remotest  possibility  that  he, 
Keyes,  might  be  one  of  these.  Then  came  the 
doctor's  reason. 

"You  do  not  know  anything,"  he  said  pater 
nally,  "anything  at  all." 

Keyes  realized,  with  some  bitterness,  that  this 
world  is  not  an  institution  existing  for  the  pur 
pose  of  detecting  and  rewarding  inner  worth. 
He  had  known  enough  to  write  his  story,  he 
guessed.  With  some  flare  of  rage,  he  felt  that 
simply  unsupported  merit  is  rather  frowned 
upon,  as  tending  by  comparison  to  cast  others 
possibly  not  possessing  so  much  of  it  somewhat 
into  the  shade.  He  had  a  savage  thought  that 
[344] 


FAME 

when  he  was  Dr.  Nevens's  age  he  would  not  be  a 
country  dentist.  He  saw  the  intense  egoism  of 
mankind. 

Dr.  N  evens  was  determined  to  show  a  young 
man  who  had  betrayed  a  consciousness  of  supe 
riority  of  grain,  his  place — economically  and  so 
cially.  The  selfish  jealousy  of  the  world! 


His  letter  had  not  come.  There  was  only  a 
package  from  Louise — a  copy  of  "Book  Talk," 
containing  a  marked  article  on  "Representative 
American  Story  Tellers";  from  this,  after  dinner, 
Keyes  imbibed  most  of  the  purported  facts  about 
Booth  Tarkington.  Then  he  went  to  bed  to  sleep 
through  the  hours  until  the  return  of  the  post 
man. 

The  next  evening  still  there  was  no  letter. 
Keyes's  spirit  was  troubled.  He  sought  the  sol 
ace  of  solitude  in  the  quiet,  shadowed  streets.  A 
reaction  was  succeeding  his  rosy  complacency! 
Doubts  pierced  his  dissolving  confidence.  Was 
his  story  so  good,  after  all?  Somehow,  as  he 
looked  back  at  it  now,  it  seemed  much  less  strong 
than  it  had  before.  He  felt  a  sort  of  sinking  in 
his  stomach.  A  sickening  suspicion  came  to  him 

[345] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

that,  perhaps,  it  was  absurd.  Maybe  it  was  very 
silly.  In  a  disconnected  way  certain  remarks 
and  passages  in  it  came  back  to  him  now  as  quite 
questionable.  Yes,  they  sounded  pretty  maud 
lin.  He  squirmed  within  with  mortification  as  a 
recollection  of  these  passages  passed  through  his 
mind.  He  hoped  his  story  would  never  get  into 
print.  A  fear  that  it  might  nauseated  him. 
Then  he  was  suffused  with  a  sensation  of  how  lit 
tle  he  amounted  to.  He  felt,  with  a  sense  of 
great  weakness,  the  precariousness  of  his  job.  A 
horror  came  over  him  that  he  might  lose  it.  He 
wished  he  did  not  know  Louise,  who  expected 
things  of  him.  He  felt  how  awkward  it  was  so 
to  fail  her.  In  the  position  he  had  got  himself 
into  with  her,  how  he  had  laid  himself  open  to  hu 
miliating  exposure !  Oh,  why  had  he  ever  sought 
her?  He  wished  he  did  not  know  anybody  well. 
He  was  an  ass  and  he  would  never  come  to  any 
thing.  He  felt  the  futility  of  his  life.  Why 
could  he  not  slink  away  somewhere  and  live  out 
his  feeble  existence  unobserved?  As  he  got  into 
bed  he  felt  that  very  easily  he  could  cry. 


[346] 


FAME 

The  August 
FAVORITE  MAGAZINE 

This  number  contains 
The  Great  Prize  Story 

by 

BENJAMIN  CECIL  KEYES 
GET  IT  !! 

.  .  .  Keyes  stood  before  a  downtown  news 
stand.  Hurrying  pedestrians  bumped  into  him. 
An  irascible  character  or  two,  thus  impeded, 
glared  back  at  him — what  was  the  matter  with 
the  fellow!  Did  he  think  there  was  nobody  but 
himself  in  the  world? 

B.  C.  Keyes  walked  home  to  the  sound  of  a 
great  orchestra  reverberating  through  him.  He 
could  not  tolerate  the  thought  of  subduing  him 
self  to  the  confinement  of  a  car.  He  needed 
movement  and  air. 

It  had  come,  his  great  letter,  a  few  weeks  be 
fore.  At  his  sitting  down  to  dinner  his  mother 
had  given  him  the  envelope.  The  Favorite  Mag 
azine — these  words  had  seemed  to  him  to  be 
printed  in  the  upper  left-hand  corner;  it  had 
struck  him  that  perhaps  the  strain  on  his  nerves 

[347] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

of  late  had  so  deranged  his  mind  that  he  now 
saw,  as  in  a  mirage,  what  was  not.  "Benjamin 
C.  Keyes,  Esq." — so  ran  the  address.  Keyes  in 
his  dizziness  noted  this  point :  people  had  not  cus 
tomarily  addressed  him  as  esquire.  Then,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  held  in  his  hand  a 
substantial  check  payable  to  his  own  name — 
wealth!  Courteous  and  laudatory  typewritten 
words  danced  before  his  burning  eyes. 

He  felt,  though  in  a  degree  an  hundred  times 
intensified,  as  though  he  had  smoked  so  much  to 
bacco,  and  drunk  so  much  coffee,  he  could  not 
compose  himself  to  eat,  or  read  a  paper,  or  go  to 
bed,  or  stay  where  he  was;  but  must  rush  off 
somewhere  else  and  talk  hysterically.  He  got 
through  his  meal  blindly.  He  could  not  explain 
— just  yet — to  his  mother:  he  felt  he  could  not 
control  the  patience  necessary  to  begin  at  the 
beginning  and  construct  a  coherent  narrative. 
.  .  .  He  must  go  to  Louise  who  already  under 
stood  the  preliminary  situation. 

It  had  occurred  to  Keyes  on  his  hurried,  stum 
bling  way  thither  that  the  whole  thing  was  un 
believable,  and  that  he  must  be  quite  insane. 
After  he  had  pushed  the  bell,  an  interminable 
time  seemed  to  elapse  before  his  ring  was  an- 
[348] 


FAME 

swered.  As  he  stood  there  on  the  porch  he  felt 
his  flesh  palpitating.  A  terrible  fear  came  over 
him  that  Louise  might  not  be  at  home.  .  .  » 
Louise  said,  when  her  frenzy  had  somewhat 
abated,  that  she  had  always  known  that  he  "had 
it  in  him."  She  told  him  there  was  now  "a  fu 
ture"  before  him.  .  .  .  Keyes  had  determined  to 
go  on  about  his  business  as  though  nothing  un 
usual  had  occurred;  then  when  the  story  ap 
peared,  to  accept  congratulations  with  retiring 
modesty.  Before  noon  the  next  day  he  had  told 
three  people ;  by  night,  seven. 

So,  going  over  it  all  again,  Keyes  arrived  at 
home,  to  learn  that — "What  do  you  think?"  His 
mother  said  "a  reporter"  had  been  at  the  house; 
an  occurrence — quite  unprecedented  in  Mrs. 
Keyes's  experience — which  had  thrown  her  into 
considerable  agitation.  This  public  official  she 
had  associated  in  her  confusion  with  a  policeman. 
He  had,  however,  treated  her  as  a  personage  of 
great  interest.  He  told  her  "there  was  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  of."  He  drew  from  her  trembling 
lips  some  account  of  her  son's  life,  and  requested 
a  photograph. 

Next  day  the  dean  of  local  newspapers,  vigi 
lant  in  patriotism,  printed  an  extended  article  on 

[349] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

the  "state's  new  writer."  And  in  an  editorial 
entitled  "The  Modern  Athens"  (which  referred 
to  Keyes  only  by  implication)  the  paper  affirmed 
again  that  Andiena  was  "by  general  consent  the 
present  chief  centre  of  letters  in  America."  It 
recapitulated  the  names  of  those  of  her  sons  and 
daughters  whose  works  were  on  the  counters  of 
every  department  store  in  the  land.  It  con 
cluded  by  saying:  "The  hope  of  a  people  is  in  its 
writers,  its  chosen  ones  of  lofty  thought,  its  poets 
and  prophets,  who  shall  dream  and  sing  for  it, 
who  shall  gather  up  its  tendencies  and  formulate 
its  ideals  and  voice  its  spirit,  proclaiming  its  du 
ties  and  awakening  its  enthusiasm."  Keyes  read 
this,  as  he  took  it  to  be,  moving  and  eloquent  trib 
ute  to  his  prize  story  with  feelings  akin  to  those 
experienced,  very  probably,  by  Isaiah. 

Keyes  received  an  ovation  at  "the  office."  The 
humility  of  Pimpkins's  admiration  was  abject. 
Keyes  perceived  the  commanding  quality  of  am 
bition — when  successful.  Miss  Wimble,  the  hol 
low-breasted  cashieress,  regarded  him  with 
sheep's-eyes.  Even  Mr.  Winder,  in  passing,  con 
gratulated  him  upon  his  "stroke  of  luck." 

Wonders  once  begun,  it  seemed,  poured.  Two 
letters  awaited  him  that  evening.  One  from  the 
[350] 


FAME 

editor  of  The  Monocle  Magazine.  The  Mon 
ocle  Magazine,  as  Louis  said,  "think  of  it!" 
The  editor  of  this  distinguished  institution  spoke 
of  his  "pleasure"  in  reading  Mr.  Reyes's  "com 
pelling"  story;  he  begged  to  request  the  favor  of 
the  "offer"  of  some  of  Keyes's  "other  work."  By 
way  of  a  fraternal  insinuation  he  mentioned  that 
he  was  a  native  of  Andiena,  himself.  "Most  of 
us  are,"  was  his  sportive  comment.  The  "Con 
solidated  Sunday  Magazines,  Inc.,"  wrote  with 
much  business  directness  to  solicit  "manuscript," 
at  "immediate  payment  on  acceptance  at  your 
regular  rates  for  fiction  of  the  first  class." 


The  extraordinary  turn  of  events  in  Keyes's 
life  brought  him  visitors  as  well  as  letters.  Dr. 
Nevens  called,  benignly  smiling  appreciation. 
His  impression  appeared  to  be  that  he  had  not 
been  mistaken  in  giving  Keyes  his  support.  Of 
more  constructive  importance,  however,  was  the 
turning  up  of  Mr.  Tate,  who  had  been  Keyes's 
instructor  in  "English"  at  the  Longridge  High 
School.  A  slender,  pale,  young  man,  with  a  bald, 
domed  forehead  "rising  in  its  white  mass  like  a 
tower  of  mind,"  Mr.  Tate  was  understood  to 

[351] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

nourish  a  deep  respect  for  literature.  He  had 
contributed  one  or  two  very  serious  and  pains 
taking  "papers"  on  the  English  of  Chaucer  (not 
very  well  understood  by  Keyes  at  the  time),  to 
"Poet-Lore" ;  and  had  edited,  with  notes,  several 
"texts"— one  of  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  with 
an  "introduction,"  for  school  use.  He  rever 
enced,  he  now  made  evident,  the  "creative  gift," 
as  he  designated  it ;  which,  he  realized,  had  been 
denied  him.  He  had  come  to  pay  homage  to  a 
vessel  of  this  gift,  his  former  pupil,  now  illus 
trious. 

With  the  hand  of  destiny  Mr.  Tate  touched  a 
vital  chord.  Self-assertion;  to  be  no  longer  an 
unregarded  atom  in  the  mass  of  those  born  only 
to  labor  for  others ;  to  find  play  for  the  mind  and 
the  passion  which,  by  no  choice  of  his  own,  dis 
tinguished  him  from  the  time  slave :  this  was  now 
Keyes's  smouldering  thought.  Mr.  Tate,  from 
his  conversancy  with  the  literary  situation, 
reported  that  there  never  was  in  the  history  of 
the  world  such  a  demand  for  fiction  as  now,  and 
that  "the  publishers"  declared  there  was  not  an 
overproduction  of  good  fiction.  Editors,  Mr. 
Tate  said,  were  eager  to  welcome  new  talent. 
He  strongly  encouraged  Keyes  to  adopt  what  he 
[352] 


FAME 

spoke  of  as  the  "literary  life."  In  fact,  he 
seemed  to  consider  that  there  was  no  alternative. 
And,  indeed,  already  in  Keyes's  own  idea  of 
his  future  he  saw  himself  eventually  settled  some 
where  amid  the  Irvin-Cobbs,  the  Julian- Streets, 
the  Joseph-Hergesheimers,  and  other  clever  peo 
ple  whose  society  would  be  congenial  to  him. 

For  the  present  he  cultivated  his  ego,  as  be 
came  a  literary  light;  and  now,  with  Mr.  Tate's 
assistance,  he  began  to  devote  the  time  at  his  com 
mand  to  preparation  for  his  life's  work,  to  study. 
Mr.  Tate  was  ardent  to  be  of  service;  he  felt 
that  he  had  here  connected  himself  with  literary 
history  in  the  making.  The  great  need  for  Keyes, 
he  felt,  was  education.  The  creative  genius,  Mr. 
Tate  said,  could  not  be  implanted;  but  he  felt 
that  this  other  he  could  supply.  He  recom 
mended  the  patient  study  of  men  and  books. 
He  thought  that  what  Keyes  needed  in  especial 
was  "technical"  knowledge;  so  he  went  at  that 
strong.  Maupassant,  Mr.  Tate  said,  was  the 
great  master  of  the  short  story.  Keyes  began 
his  evening  studies  in  English  translations  of 
Maupassant. 

The  galling  yoke  of  his  business  life  was  be 
coming  well-nigh  unbearable.  His  soul  was  in 

[353] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

ferment.  If  only  he  did  not  have  to  get  up  to 
hurry  every  morning  down  to  that  penitentiary, 
there  to  waste  his  days,  he  could  get  something 
done.  That  sapped  his  vitals.  And  he  was  tor 
tured  by  a  flame — to  do,  to  read,  study,  create, 
grow,  accomplish!  He  was  expanding  against 
the  walls  of  his  environment.  God !  could  he  but 
burst  them  asunder,  and  leap  out! 

Mr.  Tate  had  a  high  idea  of  a  thing  which  he 
spoke  of  as  "style."  In  elucidation  of  this  theme 
he  suggested  perusal  of  essays  and  treatises  by 
DeQuincey,  Walter  Pater,  and  Professor  Ra 
leigh.  He  felt  also  that  the  "art  of  fiction" 
should  be  mastered  by  his  protege.  So  Keyes 
pitched  into  examinations  of  this  recondite  sub 
ject  by  Sir  Walter  Besant,  Marion  Crawford, 
R.  L.  Stevenson,  and  Anthony  Trollope.  Keyes 
realized  that  he  had  not  realized  before  what  a 
lot  there  was  to  writing.  Mr.  Tate  purchased 
out  of  his  slender  means  as  a  present,  "Success  in 
Literature,"  by  G.  H.  Lewes.  He  unearthed  a 
rich  collection  in  titles  of  books  the  consumption 
of  which  literature  would  be  invaluable  to  one 
in  training  for  the  literary  profession.  An  ad 
mirable  bibliography,  this  list,  of  the  genre  which 
was  Keyes's  specialty: — "The  Art  of  Short  Story 
[354] 


FAME 

Writing,"  "Practical  Short  Story  Writing," 
"The  Art  of  the  Short  Story,"  "The  Short 
Story,"  "Book  of  the  Short  Story,"  "How  to 
Write  a  Short  Story,"  "Writing  of  the  Short 
Story,"  "Short  Story  Writing,"  "Philosophy  of 
the  Short  Story,"  "The  Story-Teller's  Art," 
"The  Short  Story  in  English,"  "Selections  from 
the  World's  Greatest  Short  Stories,"  "American 
Short  Stories,"  "Great  English  Short-Story 
Writers."  In  the  reading  room  of  the  public  li 
brary  Keyes  followed  a  series  of  articles  in  "Book 
Talk"  on  the  "Craftsmanship  of  Writing."  He 
advanced  in  literary  culture,  under  Mr.  Tate's 
zealous  lead,  to  consideration  of  "the  novel,"  its 
history  and  development.  And,  too,  to  the  drama, 
its  law  and  technique.  His  head  was  filled  with 
the  theory  of  denouements,  "moments,"  rising 
actions,  climaxes,  suspended  actions,  and  catas 
trophes.  At  times  he  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that 
all  these  things  did  not  much  help  him  to  think 
up  any  new  stories  of  his  own.  But  Mr.  Tate 
said  "that"  would  "come." 


And  wealth  and  fame  were  even  now  at  hand. 
The  promoters  of  the  great  prize  contest  adver- 

[355] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

tising  dodge  had  not  been  at  fault  in  business 
acumen;  the  winning  story  returned  ample  evi 
dence  of  its  popular  appeal.  It  was  akin  to  the 
minds  of  the  "peepul."  The  Favorite  Mag 
azine  was  sold  during  August  by  enterprising 
newsboys  on  trolley  cars.  That  great  public 
whose  literature  is  exclusively  contemporaneous, 
—whose  world  of  letters  is  the  current  Saturday 
Mcdl-Ooach,  the  All-people's  Magazine,  the 
Purple  Book,,  the  Nothing-But-Stories,  the  Mo 
diste,  The  Swift  Set,  Jones's — the  Magazine  that 
Entertains,,  Brisk  Stories,  Popularity,  and  the 
Tip-Top, — discussed  the  big  features  on  front 
porches.  Keyes's  story  even  attracted  the  inter 
est  of  those  who  seldom  read  anything.  A  num 
ber  of  letters  from  persons  of  that  impulsive  class 
which  communicates  its  inward  feelings  to  authors 
personally  unknown  were  forwarded  to  Keyes 
from  his  publishers.  A  young  lady  resident  in  St. 
Joe,  Michigan,  wrote  to  say  that  she  thought  the 
scene  where  the  boat  upsets  was  the  et grandest 
thing  ever  written." 

Imagine  a  man  like  Keyes  sitting  his  days 

away  on  an  office  stool.     His  mother,  however, 

could  not  "see"  his  resigning  his  position.     His 

"father  had  always"  .  .  .  and  so  forth.     Keyes 

[356] 


FAME 

foamed  within.  What  a  thing — woman's  mad 
dening  narrowness!  At  the  office  Keyes's  sit 
uation  grew,  in  subtle  ways,  more  and  more  op 
pressive.  His  position  appeared  to  become  equiv 
ocal.  Mr.  Winder  seemed  to  make  a  point  of 
increasing  exactness.  Keyes  felt  a  disposition 
in  authority  to  put  down  any  subordinate  uppish- 
ness  of  feeling  possibly  occasioned  by  doings  out 
side  the  line  of  business.  And  he  became  con 
scious,  too,  of  a  curious  estrangement  from  his 
associates  there.  They,  on  their  side,  Pimpkins 
in  especial,  seemed  to  feel  that  he  felt  he  was  too 
good  for  them.  And,  in  truth,  he  did.  The  mun 
dane  aims  of  those  around  him  got  on  his  nerves. 
Their  commonplace  thoughts  irritated  him. 
They  were  common  natures.  But,  with  fierce  se 
cret  joy,  Keyes  knew  that  an  event  was  approach 
ing  which  promised,  would  command,  deliverance 
from  it  all. 

Fall  came.  And  the  Favorite  Publishing 
Company  bound  up  the  prize  story  as  a  "gift 
book"  for  the  holiday  trade.  Claud  Clarence 
Chamberlain,  the  well-known  illustrator  and  cre 
ator  of  the  famous  "Picture-Hat  Girl,"  was  com 
missioned  to  make  the  decorations.  These  were 
done  with  much  dash  in  highly  colored  crayon 

[357] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

and  popular  sentiment.  One  was  printed  on 
the  paper  jacket  of  the  book,  with  the  title  in 
embossed  letters.  The  advertisement  pro 
nounced  the  work  altogether  "an  exquisite  piece 
of  book-making."  It  declared  the  production 
the  "daintiest  gift  of  the  season,"  and  reminded 
"people  of  culture  and  refinement"  that  there 
was  "no  present  like  a  book." 

Indeed  a  hero  is  not  without  fame  in  his  own 
country.  The  Stanton-Merritt  bookstore  on 
Capital  Street  arranged  a  window  display  of 
about  a  ton  of  "Will  Rockwell  Makes  Good," 
with  one  of  Mr.  Chamberlain's  original  illustra 
tions,  framed,  in  the  centre.  A  monster  adver 
tising  banner  was  flung  across  the  front  of  the 
store  above  the  entrance  and  windows.  Just  in 
side,  a  pyramid  breast-high  was  built  of  the  books, 
beneath  an  artistic  piece  of  work — a  hanging 
board  upon  which  was  burned  in  old  English  let 
ters:  "  'A  good  book  is  the  precious  life  blood  of 
a  Master  Spirit' — Milton."  A  lady  who  in 
formed  the  salesman  that  she  thought  "books" 
were  "just  fine,"  bought  twenty  copies  for  hol 
iday  distribution.  She  inquired  if  there  was  not 
a  discount  on  that  number  purchased. 

Drugged  with  triumph,  they  returned  together 
[358] 


FAME 

Saturday  night  from  the  exhibition  "down  town" ; 
and,  in  the  now  historic  little  parlor  again,  Louise 
wept  upon  the  shoulder  of  her  affianced.  Yes; 
they  were  formally  engaged.  Keyes  was  not 
without  a  sensation  that  the  situation  was  rather 
chaotic.  But  destiny  seemed  to  close  in  on  him 
and  bear  him  on. 

The  reviewers  got  on  the  job.  And  they  were 
there  with  the  goods.  Statements  from  a  few 
typical  press  notices  follow.  "An  absorbing 
story,"  said  the  Topeka  Progressive,  "throb 
bing  with  optimism."  "Mr.  Keyes  strikes  a  new 
note  in  this  unusual  production;  vivid,  dramatic," 
— San  Francisco  Lookout.  "A  story  of  vivid 
and  compelling  interest,"  one  critic  declared.  "A 
delightful  story,  rich  in  heart  throbs,"  was  one 
good  one.  One  reviewer  said,  "Here  we  have  a 
real  love  story,  a  tale  of  love,  tender  and  true, 
delightfully  narrated.  There  are  so  many  fine, 
tender  passages  in  the  episode  of  these  two,  who 
live  just  for  each  other,  that  reading  the  little 
book  is  like  breathing  strong,  refreshing  air." 
"The  creator  of  'Will  Rockwell,'  said  one  paper, 
"has  here  written  a  new  idyl  of  America."  "An 
inspiring  picture,"  said  another.  One  very  fine 
critique  said:  "Once  in  awhile,  possibly  once  in 

[359] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

a  lifetime,  there  arises  before  us  a  writer  of  fiction 
whose  genius  is  undeniable  the  instant  it  greets 
us."  When  Keyes  read  this,  quoted  in  his  pub 
lisher's  latest  newspaper  advertisement,  he  knew 
that  he  had  found  his  work  in  the  world.  And 
reasoning  from  his  experience,  he  saw  before  him 
a  calling  that  would  be  ever  a  noble  intoxication 
of  the  soul,  a  kind  that  would  know  naught  of 
headaches  or  remorse. 

But  perhaps  the  best  of  all  the  critical  dicta 
was  this :  "Written,  "  it  declared,  "with  blood  and 
tears  and  fire."  Very  impressive  was  the  num 
ber  of  times  that  were  used  such  adjectives  as 
"big,"  "vital,"  "absorbing,"  "compelling,"  "re 
markable,"  "insistent,"  and  "virile."  "Opti 
mism,"  it  developed  too,  was  the  supreme  merit 
of  fiction.  One  of  the  arresting  terms  employed 
was  "economy  of  means." 

There  were,  it  is  true,  a  few  dissenting  voices 
from  the  chorus  of  unrestrained  praise,  chiefly 
from  certain  notoriously  dull,  conservative,  kill 
joy  journals.  The  New  York  Evening  Post 
man  said:  "This  somewhat  amateurish  little  es 
say  in  fiction  seems  to  be  the  product  of  an  un 
tutored  sincerity.  In  this,  its  sincerity,  it  is  not 
without  a  degree  of  vigor.  We  doubt,  however, 
[360] 


FAME 

whether  the  author  can  repeat  the  performance." 
And  that  irrepressibly  ribald  organ,  the  New 
York  Beam,  could  not  forbear  its  customary 
jocular  sport.  Its  smart  review  of  this  little 
classic  (as  one  bookseller  already  pronounced  it) 
began:  "Hooray  for  'Will'!  Hooray  also  for 
'Mabel'!  They  are  the  real  simegoozlia." 


"Don't  you  think  you  could  write  something 
now,  dear?"  inquired  Mrs.  Keyes,  who  did  not 
see  how  scholarship  pure  and  simple  was,  so  to 
say,  to  move  the  boat. 

This  idea  of  writing  something  now  had  indeed 
occurred  to  Keyes ;  but  somehow  he  had  not  been 
able  to  think  of  anything  in  particular  to  write. 
So  he  went  on  with  his  studies,  at  the  same  time 
keeping  an  eye  open  for  available  material,  char 
acters,  and  plots. 

"Surely  you  can  write  something,  Ben,  that  we 
could  get  some  money  for,"  said  Louise.  A  wife, 
after  all,  is  only  a  woman,  with  a  mind  fitted  to 
petty  things,  such  as  groceries,  family  washings, 
clothing,  and  divers  household  bills.  It  is  irri 
tating  to  a  man  of  lofty  mind  who  night  and  day 
is  racking  his  brain  for  an  idea,  to  be  prodded 

[361] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

on  in  this  fashion.  Keyes  ground  his  teeth  and 
bore  it;  he  reflected  that  an  author's  life  is  fre 
quently  a  battle  with  mediocrity.  Perhaps  he 
was  mistaken  as  to  where  lay  the  mediocrity  with 
which  he  battled. 

He  fretted  and  worried  and  at  length  sat  him 
self  down  to  write  without  an  inspiration.  He 
bethought  himself  of  Trollope's  example  to  liter 
ary  aspirants,  and  tried  to  grind  out  two  hundred 
and  fifty  words  every  fifteen  minutes  for  three 
hours  a  day.  He  couldn't  write  twenty.  He 
kept  doggedly  on.  He  could  not  make  his  char 
acters  act  or  talk — the  talk  was  the  most  hopeless 
thing  of  all.  He  couldn't,  as  once  he  had  done, 
cry  over  them.  Sometimes,  in  the  stillness  of  the 
night  with  his  clock  ticking  before  him,  he  almost 
thought  that  he  had  regained  for  a  moment  a  tithe 
of  the  power  he  once  had;  but  in  the  morning 
when  he  reviewed  his  work  he  admitted  that  he 
had  been  sadly  mistaken.  Now  doubts  haunted 
his  soul;  even  as  he  wrote  another  consciousness 
within  not  thus  employed  whispered  of  his  im- 
potency.  Fact  is,  Keyes  had  not  at  all  the  cre 
ative  gift. 

He  struggled  through  a  number  of  stories, 
some  better  and  some  worse.  When  he  mailed 
[362] 


FAME 

these  it  was  with  a  faltering,  doubting  heart. 
Something  with  a  weak  action  away  in  his  in 
terior  told  him  that  they  would  not  be  accepted. 

Keyes  got  thinner  in  flesh,  more  distressed  in 
spirit,  and  poorer  in  this  world's  goods  as  time 
went  on.  Sometimes  he  felt  like  an  imposter 
and  was  ashamed  to  face  his  wife ;  then  he  reread 
his  press  notices  and  a  fever  to  do  something 
shook  him.  But  a  man  cannot  support  himself 
and  his  wife  on  a  fever  to  do  something.  Ben 
jamin  Cecil  Keyes  could  not  understand  the 
thing:  if  he  had  literary  genius  why  couldn't  he 
write?  If  he  had  not,  how  then  had  he  written? 
To  sit  in  full  view  of  one's  wife  day  after  day 
pretending  to  be  interested  in  a  book  when  the 
bill-collector  calls;  and  to  be  tormented  all  the 
time  by  a  desire  to  do  something  and  not  to  be 
able  to  do  it,  or  know  when,  if  ever,  one  will  be 
able ;  and  to  be  ashamed  and  afraid  to  tell  one's 
wife  this;  but  to  be  compelled  to  be  there,  or  to 
run  away,  or  to  hang  one's  self — this  is  a  situa 
tion  more  than  uncomfortable. 

A  thousand  times  Keyes  decided  to  roll  up  his 
sleeves  and  do  something  else — engage  in  any 
profitable  employment ;  and  a  thousand  times  he 
decided  not  to — just  yet.  A  man  often  exists  in 

[363] 


TURNS  ABOUT  TOWN 

this  way  until  he  gets  quite  to  the  end  of  the  string 
where  the  wolf  is. 

"That  was  an  accident,  Louise,"  said  Keyes 
sadly  one  day.  "I  find  I  can't  write." 

Keyes  was  mistaken  again.  No  fine  thing  ever 
was  made  by  accident.  Keyes  managed  to  write 
that  story  because  its  theme  was  the  most  inter 
esting  incident  in  his  life;  because  it  appealed 
to  him  more  strongly  than  anything  else  had  in  his 
whole  experience;  because  he  was  thoroughly 
familiar  with  the  life  and  the  people  he  featured 
in  his  story ;  because  he  was  absolutely  sincere  in 
his  sympathies,  appreciation,  and  emotions  here ; 
he  had  no  ideals  set  way  beyond  his  power,  no 
aping  tendencies  after  an  effective  style,  no  at 
tention  distracted  by  an  ill-digested  knowledge 
of  mechanical  construction.  The  structure,  and 
the  style  simply  came,  probably  because — and 
finally  he  managed  to  write  that  story  because — 
he  was  keyed  up  to  it. 

A  domestic  woman  often  has  a  wretchedly  un- 
worshipful  view  of  art  and  fame.  Keyes's  con 
fession  did  not  kill  Louise.  I  suppose  he  ex 
pected  her  to  go  back  to  her  parents  in  high 
dudgeon  as  one  who  had  been  grossly  swindled. 

"Do  you  care  if  you  can't  write?"  she  said,  after 
[364] 


FAME 

a  moment's  silence.  "Just  think  how  nice  you 
are — how  much  nicer  you  were  before  you  tried 
to  write!  And  how  it  has  worried  you!" 

Keyes  got  a  job  as  a  collector  for  a  mercan 
tile  house.  "My  health  demands  outdoor  em 
ployment,"  he  told  his  acquaintances. 


Sometimes,  alone  with  his  lamp  after  the  day's 
confounded  drudgery,  Keyes  got  out  the  old 
magazine  and  reread  his  forgotten  story. 


THE  END. 


[365] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


NOV  28  1947 


LD  21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


Holliday, 
Turns  ao< 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


